The Scorpion and the Sand
by NMT
Summary: When Suna's past comes back to stir up some old and new dust, things can get very, very complicated...SasoGaa. M for language.
1. Encounter

**This is a roleplay that my partner so graciously permitted me to post up. Give her some lovin' if you like what you see here—I only did half of the work, after all.**

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**

**Any other characters will be listed as we go.**

**Disclaimer****: If Naruto (and all of its characters) were mine, Sasori would be alive and Gaara would be his boy-toy. As this is obviously not the case, Naruto is obviously not mine. That be all.**

**xXxXx**

If Gaara had not believed he was benefiting his village, he would have never submitted himself to this. Endless tedium - in the paperwork, in the talks with the old men...He spent most of his day in an office talking down propositions with various nobodies, the rest of his time signing papers and debating with the council of elders. He watched over his siblings, giving them missions he almost envied them for. The only power he really had was that of his abilities, which (of course) he never got to use anymore. Pent up, unused chakra fizzled out and caused him even more agitation.

But the night...the night was still his.

During the day it would be unseemly for him to just wander off on his own, but when the moon was visible, he could sneak off to think.

After he did his nightly rounds of checking up on his...'precious' people (his sister was away, which caused him to be a bit uneasy, but his brother and Baki were just getting to bed, and Matsuri was already comfortably asleep, surrounded by her collection of stuffed animals) he departed through one of the gates in the great stone walls that his father had made for the village so long ago.

The sand was still for the night, bleached into a white that made ghostly shapes on the horizon once stirred by wind.

The area he approached was covered by even more ghoulish shapes. They looked slightly like birds, stark white columns of stone with larger heads capping them. Carved by the wind famous in the country, they were famous landmarks that were of gold and pinkish hues in the day.

The sand thinned out near the stone formations, but he walked near them anyways, contemplating what the shapes could be, and how everything lost its color in the moonlight.

He was far away from his tether and bonds as Kazekage, even though he was less than a mile away from the village.

He was also not the only one out on the desert that night.

The obscure, alien shapes that rose from the otherwise empty wasteland of the Wind Country held Sasori in the thrall of their ancient beauty, speaking to him of centuries of being carved by the unfathomably skilled hands of the artist that was never seen but always present. They had changed little since his childhood, when he had come to stare at them in the curious wonder that almost all children seemed gifted and plagued with. Then, he had always believed that no matter how old he lived, these eternal works of nature would outlast him. Should he live six lives, they would still be there.

Now that he had crafted an immortal body, he was not so sure. Time could only tell which would live longer.

Pausing, he stretched and flexed the many limbs of the puppet he had taken refuge inside of, listening critically to the soft creak of the joints for any problems. Unfortunately, some grit had managed to get in, but that couldn't be helped in the desert. Thankfully, he'd taken a few precautions to be sure it wouldn't hinder his movement, nor cause his creation to make an excessive amount of noise. Once he'd reached the village, he'd need to climb his way in, and that required flexibility and subtlety.

For half a moment, he wished he had Deidara's knack for creating things that could properly fly. Then he dismissed it, recalling the fact that those flying pieces of so-called 'art' were explosive, not to mention glaringly noticeable.

When Pain had assigned Sasori and Deidara to investigate Suna prior to their attempt to capture the Kazekage, the first thing that came to mind was '_damn sand'_. The second thing that came to mind was _'damn Deidara'_. His partner was no good when it came to being sneaky, and his sense of true art was wretchedly was why, once he'd made all of the preparations required for this particular mission, he'd taken special care to _not_ let his blonde companion know when he was leaving. The trip was both faster and quieter without him around, not to mention notably more peaceful. He could hear himself think, for once.

Turning one of the wooden wrists, Sasori considered where he would need to go in the village to gather the most information he could before daybreak. All he would really need to know was how the layout had changed since he'd last been there, what the strength and reaction time of the military was, and how they could most easily draw out the-

Sasori froze as the whisper of sand shifting underfoot broke the silence of the night. Slowly, he pressed up against one of the arched backs of pale stone, thankful of the silent nature of his puppet and the leanness of its body. Hiding was not something he typically did, but sometimes it was preferable. Tonight, he'd rather not be noticed if he could help it.

Gaara was lost in his thoughts.

_How much do I want this?_

He found himself wondering.

_When it frustrates me so much I'd rather be alone?_

_Even though I know the last thing I want is to be alone again..._

He shook his head, waving his wild hair almost to the point of making a noise, trying to clear those thoughts from his head.

"I don't want to be alone. I just want to think."

But his brother had even questioned him about it. And his brother would know, being older and wiser and more experienced in the court feuds of Suna's politician-ing.

The sand was shallow, but it still was sand, and the sand he was familiar with. So familiar, in fact, that sometimes Gaara was convinced it spoke to him. The message he received was not in words, but it was still clear as glass.

_There is someone else here._ He could feel them on the sand.

He stopped in his place, eyes searching for whoever was out there.

It wasn't foe he was anticipating, but surely if a Suna resident was aware Gaara was in the vicinity, they'd announce themselves. And if they weren't a Suna resident, then they couldn't mean well.

Inside his puppet, Sasori frowned. The only person who would be awake and wandering outside of Suna at this hour, without guard and without being grilled for leaving their post, was-

_Gaara._

_Kazekage._

_Bijuu vessel._

It had to be.

Sasori moved as much as the rock he leant against in the silent stillness that followed, considering his options. Judging from the sounds that the Kazekage was making – which were none at all – his presence had been somehow noticed. Either that or the boy was having a quiet reverie, and thought himself to be the only one in this lovely patch of landscape. Assuming it was the latter, he had only to wait until the youth returned to village before he could move on to complete his mission. However, if the former was true, things had just become many times more difficult. There was too little cover here for him to retreat unnoticed, and a battle in this puppet would be extremely unwise. He had his puppet summons with him, as usual, but they were fewer and weaker than usual. Right now, he was at a severe disadvantage in terms of power.

_Damnit. Of all the times I've put up with that loud-mouthed brat, it had to be the one time he would be useful that I decided to ditch him. Perfect._

There was no denying that Deidara would be good to have around right now. If there _was_ a battle, the explosions – however conspicuous they were – would be useful. Weapons, however, would have little effect on sand, poisoned or not. His only chance, when it came down to it, would be to lay at least one scratch upon the Jinchuuriki. If he could manage that, he would be fine.

Slowly, careful to leave the velvet silence of the night unscathed, Sasori lifted one of the arms of the puppet. The forearm folded in on itself, a long blade slipping out of the gap. Its edge was covered with something thick and black, something that didn't reflect the light back into the sky, something deadly and dripping. It was a concoction that he had designed himself, rendering the body useless almost instantly, and killing it three days later.

Sasori's body was tensed, prepared to attack, defend, or simply wait.

Gaara shut his eyes and steadied his hand, forcing himself to further contemplate the situation. He should gather his sand to defend, but he risked a moderate deal if it was a Suna resident in the area.

...But it would be better to apologize to a flustered villager then to be caught off guard by some assassin or the like.

In an obvious display of wariness, tendrils of sand lifted off the ground, leaving the curved white stone beneath. Like a sightless animal feeling around, the limbs of the desert began curling around the stone, looking for whoever was nearby. They seemed drawn to the weight near one column of stone, each making their way around the others before eventually converging on that point.

Gaara was silent as he held his hands up, commanding the sand with subtle gestures and smooth chakra control. He was gauging, waiting for any reaction.

When the sand - animate as though alive, crawling over the ground, twisting through the air - turned its winding, seemingly aimless path towards him, Sasori became acutely aware that it was just about time to move. He had little more than a moment before he would be identified by the searching grains. Before, his options had been limited, but now even more so was he aware that the odds against him were great - this puppet was only slightly defensive and less offensive, despite being fast and flexible. No matter what decision he made, things would be difficult. Open desert did not provide good cover for a retreat, and battle...well, some would label it stupid when considering his current state of affairs. However, as was stated before, his options were limited. Whether he would defend himself or try to escape depended on the actions of the Kazekage, but either way-

Something brushed against the foot of his puppet; he could feel the slight nudge acutely in his chakra strings.

_No more time to think._

Sasori spun around, no longer attempting to hide his presence or remain silent, and scuttled up the side of the wind-carved rock. Blade-tipped fingers scraped at the rock for grips. Spidering his way up to the curved surface that marked the top of the formation, he paused as more of his arms folded in, multitudes of blackened blades slipping out of the narrow gaps. The black and red cloak he wore – dirtied by his travels and now filthy with his climb – was shredded as limbs shot out on all sides.

All the while, in his mind, one word repeated:

Damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn_.

Gaara felt his as his sand felt as though it were simply an extension of himself. It brushed against something, he couldn't tell what for certain, but he knew it was of a different build and texture then the stone.

But in a scratching, ragged movement, that something began darting up the stone in a completely...inhuman movement.  
The sand retreated back to surround the silent Suna nin, who had nearly dropped his offensive tactics, thinking that he had mistaken an oversized animal of the desert for a human.

Even though it did not seem human...it did not quite seem animal, either. Especially when, in very mechanical noises, blades of some awful color began folding out from some machinery inside it. Had Gaara not been from the Sand village, he might have spent more then a few instants wondering in horror what thing he had encountered. But his life experiences served him well, as he hastily reached one likely conclusion: puppet.

However, though he had that as a mindset, the use of puppetry reminded him of his brother, and this distant connection kept him from striking out against the possible attacker. Half because the familiarity made him want to wait to see if they would reveal themselves, half because he was convinced that the puppeteer was someplace else entirely.

Sasori paused.

No offensive reaction from the Kazekage. That could either be very good or very bad, though he wasn't particularly keen on finding out.

_Option one: run very fast, very far._

_Option two: go on the defensive, and _then _run very fast, very far._

_Option three: capture the Kazekage now, and then run very fast, very far with him tucked under one arm._

How he hated making difficult decisions.

At a pace more deliberate and careful than his initial scramble, Sasori maneuvered over the smooth sandstone, the grip-blades on the many hands of the puppet scratching roughly over the rock, occasionally gouging it. The razor-edged weapons that protruded from every limb refused to refract the light of the moon back into its round, pale face, instead devouring the cool glow.

The mouth of the puppet clacked open, and row after row of serrated steel teeth glinted.

"Hello there, Gaara." The voice was rough and hollow in the wood and metal throat, almost as mechanical as the body from which it issued. "Nice night for a little stroll around the dunes, wouldn't you agree?"

Hesitant, Gaara followed the puppet with his gaze as it moved, occasionally taking the risk to look away, searching for whoever was controlling it. As it came closer, he stood his ground, like he would for any foe. But his hair seemed lifted slightly, and his jaw was set in tension.

He was caught between thinking it was some animal approaching him, and some weapon that he should anticipate springing with kunai and darts flying everywhere.

Kunai? He could handle them. Needles? Those too. And already he was getting ready for poison smoke. That would be more difficult, as simple sand walls wouldn't protect him.

The grains of the desert swirled around him, forming some noticeable, but vague sphere, ready to block an attack.

But when it parted its jaws and spoke through rattling, dagger like teeth, his eyes visibly widened. Even more so when it called him by name.

Kankuro wouldn't toy with him like this. He wouldn't.

But then, who was this puppeteer?

Swallowing, he relaxed his arms and managed a steady-voiced reply.

"Every night is a stroll for me. But who are you to wander the dunes near my village?"

He maintained eye contact, however artificial, now that the doll addressed him.

The puppet's style, now that he was closer, reminded him so much of his brother's. All except for the gathered mass of black blades. That seemed...unlike his brother, whose face half hidden in paint was floating up in his mind. Half out of his need to let the situation be diffused, he still feebly clung to the hope that his brother had come to keep him company during the night.

The puppet chuckled, a grating, harsh sound that resembled the grind of machinery more than it did laughter.

"No one you know, I assure you." Crawling down the rock face and sliding to the ground, the puppet stood at its full height upon the thin layer of sand that covered the earth. Ten arms, each converted into a weapon, crossed simultaneously over the cloth-covered chest in a monstrous human mimicry of condescending impatience. "But certainly someone you've heard of. Or, at least, someone your brother has heard of."

Gaara kept his eyes trained on the face, however a useless appendage it was. But it was moving such that it inappropriately invoked his curiosity. It was...humanlike despite its puppet form, and his mind pondered over whether such a being could actually be...alive.

In his naivety, he still stood his ground, still holding up his constant posture of fearlessness. He was Gaara of the Desert, after all.

But the mention of his brother concerned him, and his feet shifted on the gritty stone, ever so slightly.

_Kankuro is fine. That was not a threat in his voice, and you saw him today when you checked over everyone. You made sure,_ he told himself, and became still once more.

"You are an intruder then?" Dumb question. If someone had a legit reason to be traveling to Suna, he would have been informed at least twenty times in the proceeding week.

Teal eyes flickered to look once last time to search for the puppeteer.

"Rather, do you intend to attack me?"

Sasori pondered the question, stilling. There were many ways it could be answered; he could say no, and possibly go off on his merry way to receive severe punishment from Pain for failing the research mission and alerting none other than the Kazekage that Suna was the object of _someone's_ interest; he could say yes, and launch an attack and-or be attacked; or, he could give an ultimatum and allow it to be received however it would.

That last option seemed best.

"Not if you agree to come quietly," The mouth of the puppet clacked together at he spoke, teeth rattling. "However, if it is a fight you want, it's a fight you'll have. Just know that if you decide to tangle with me, the last person you should be worrying about is yourself."

It was a subtle threat, and one that the red-headed Jinchuuriki would do well to heed. However difficult it might be to harm Gaara, the people of the Sand village were not nearly as well prepared to deal with an assault of puppets, despite being the main hub of puppet masters. He'd brought down a nation single-handedly once before, and he could do it again; _would_ do it again.

Subtle, despite his toes dipped into the political pool already, was not something Gaara typically did well. It took a while, him staring still at the puppet he knew now wasn't his brothers. The last one he should worry about?

He didn't bother to shift his gaze in some quick, darting motion this time. Attention taken, he turned his head towards the cliff walls of Suna, back where the village's embers still burned with some light. It was quiet. Unprepared.

It depended on him for protection, as did everyone within it.

He thought over his options, looking back at the puppet. He could always bide time to find the puppeteer, but his success with that already discouraged him.

He could ignore the threat, and attack whatever came for him.

...Or perhaps he could do with some dishonesty.

"Come with you where?" He spoke up, and the sand that swayed around him came to a slow stop.

Inside the puppet, a slow smile touched Sasori's face; it could be heard in his voice as he spoke.

"All you need to know is that it's a place you won't be coming back from. Not alive, at least. Though, I suppose your lifespan once you get there really depends on your behavior. It would be something of a pain to have to kill you. However, it's not all bad – in fact, some of it is quite good. I'm sure you'd like to be rid of Shukaku, would you not?" The puppet lifted one hand, palm up. "We have the power-" the hand clenched, as though it were squeezing something, crushing something. "-to take it from you. Without the demon, you'll have no more reason to fear falling asleep at night, nor the villagers have any reason to distrust you."

But there's a catch, my little friend, because if we take the bijuu – _when_ we take the bijuu – you will die.

_Something in his insides squirmed, and the dense mass of chakra within his body roused itself at being named. It looked through Gaara's eyes, and saw with contentment that it was nighttime._

_Whoever the person was, it made no difference to the creature._

_It wasn't going to leave Gaara. At least, not without being pried away._

The boy's eyes were wide. Not bright, but definitely wide.

The puppet used the term 'we'. This was a group. He had heard of it, hadn't he?

The ones after the bijuu, like the demon inside him.

Some brief fire flared up in him, and the sand twisted, but then fell.

Shukaku, removed?

...if anything in the world, he wanted that. And despite his attempt at falsehood, he'd wonder if he could actually bring himself to say he wouldn't want it taken from him. Taken far away, erased from his existence and memory.

_Snapping its jaws, the creature stirred more, angered at being considered expendable. Whatever fury he gathered, however, was quickly silenced, as the infernal brat was too experienced with his fits, and simply suppressed him._

Gaara spoke once more, in a softer tone."So your quarrel is with me, not my village?" He had meant to sound more confident.

"That's right." He'd struck a nerve when he'd mentioned the removal of the bijuu, he could see it in those blue-green eyes and he could hear it in the softening of his tone. "If you cooperate, your village will be left well alone. Only if they attack first will there be casualties. Which is why - should you decide to come with me rather than have their safety threatened - I recommend sending a message to someone you trust, informing them that they shouldn't pursue you."

The puppet tilted its head and crossed two of its arms, joints creaking as it moved. "Unless, of course, you wish to fight me, in which case no such message would be necessary, because neither you nor they would be alive to send or receive it.

"Whether or not the children of Suna wake up tomorrow morning is purely up to you."

Before the other had spoken, he had been telling himself that giving up Shukaku wouldn't be the correct path to take. Giving up the beast would be handing over a weapon to an apparent foe. Even if he wanted Shukaku gone, it was his responsibility to keep it within Suna's possession. Not only that, but the village...needed him. He couldn't just walk away with this puppet.

That is, until he heard out the puppet's final, explicit threat.

And his heart told him he had to, before his mind could shout it down.

If he gave himself up, Suna would be safe. And somehow he knew that this person wasn't bluffing.

...But if he was, he would find out soon.

A deep inhale, and Gaara forced himself into a near limp relaxation.

"Very well. I will go with you."

_Easier than I expected._

_Too easy?_

Sasori remained still for a moment longer, searching for any sign of falsehood or an attack that was only waiting for him to let down his guard. One could never be sure with an enemy, and Gaara in particular was notably unpredictable. However, the lack of battle tension in the Kazekage's form did not speak of betrayal, nor had the expressions that had flickered over his face as he considered the offer and threat.

_Not that I wanted a fight, but...it's odd that he should care so much for this village, despite their hatred. Or perhaps he's just selfish enough to want to get rid of Shukaku regardless of Suna and its people._

_Whatever._

All arms sheathed their weapons, the blades slipping back into the wooden hollows that sealed seamlessly around them. Six of the ten vanished into the tattered cloak, retracting until they were needed for battle like the claws of some horrific mechanical cat. The razor-edged grips on its finger tips also retreated back into the wood. Steel teeth clinked together as the mouth of it closed with a hollow _chk_.

The puppet waved one of its four remaining hands in a gesture for the redhead to come closer. Precautions would need to be taken in this case, and one of them was being sure he had at least _some_ control over his captive, willing or not.

"Behave, and I won't hurt you." Again, the puppet motioned for him to approach.

There were a few things that needed to be taken care of before they could take their leave. One of them was making sure that they wouldn't be pursued. For this, he would need Gaara. Also, without the assistance of Deidara's flying creations, they would be traveling on foot, and it wouldn't hurt to gather some supplies for the journey. Because his body required neither, he had brought neither food nor drink, and Sasori would be in a world of pain – no pun intended – if the Jinchuuriki died of dehydration on their way to the meeting place; leader would use his corpse as a centerpiece at the main hideout. Not to mention the fact that it would be nice to have some extra oils and cleaning fabrics for his puppets, to be sure that the joints moved smoothly and easily. He'd brought some along, but already he was running low.

Gaara had to assess the situation. Assess it over and over again to calm some fluttering wild in his thoughts.

First, he had to assume that he was submitting to someone at least his equal, if not greater. Until that was proven wrong, he would avoid doing anything to provoke the other.

Second, the success of any situation demanded that he stay alert. At any attempts to render him unconscious he would attempt to thwart, regardless of his agreement with the puppet.

Third, make certain he didn't become a captive. That would give the other an even greater edge.

Fourth...No one would notice he was gone until seven the next morning. Around six hours between now and then.

Six hours of a head start makes a world of a difference in the desert.

He forced himself to hear the other's threat as a bargain. After all, all of this had been a bargain. His life for his village's?  
...He had agreed to that, hadn't he?

Silent, he walked forward to the great machine, sand settling back upon the stone beneath them.

"Now, listen carefully, because it's quite simple and I don't like to repeat myself." Sasori circled Gaara, speaking as he gathered chakra into his fingertips. "We are going to go into Suna. Together. However, I – unlike you – will not be seen. You are to let _someone_ know that you're going _somewhere_. I don't care where. Just be sure that they won't come looking for you." The chakra spun itself into threads, thinning until it was visibly undetectable and the energy level was low enough to be unnoticeable. "Once that's been taken care of, we'll be off to gather five days worth of whatever it is you eat and drink and wear." _Let's not forget the puppets, either._ "Then we'll be leaving."

Lightly, he poked the back of the Kazekage's head. "And don't get any clever ideas about telling someone to come looking for you. Particularly don't make the mistake of thinking that when Suna's out of sight, it's out of reach, too. I could destroy it just as easily from Kumo as I can from right here." Not entirely true, but he could manipulate the puppets enough to release clouds of poison over and into the village.

There was a single, thin strand of chakra connecting Sasori's finger to the other's head. If Gaara noticed it – being most likely ignorant of the dynamics of chakra strings, despite his brother's familiarity with such things – the puppet master would be much impressed.

_Captives...No captives._

And this man expected him to lie to another to spread the six hour distance even longer? A length damning?

"I will not allow you to enter Suna." The boy did not move, and his expression of calm submission did not shift. But something had changed in his voice as he watched the other circle him like some predator. "If you want me to get supplies and speak to another, you will remain here and wait for me to return." He was commanding.

He had to divert attention away from the village.

But...was the puppet gathering chakra? It faded before he could truly pick it out, but it felt as if the golem was molding chakra.

Sasori felt irritation stir at the young man's defiance – young _boy's_ defiance, for he truly was nothing more than a boy. It wasn't even so much _what_ he had refused to let him do as much as the fact that he had refused to let him do it. To think that he, Kazekage or no, would not submit was cause alone for anger. That he had also attempted to _command_ him-

One of the hard, wooden hands came down on Gaara's shoulder, its grip like iron.

"Perhaps I have not made myself clear." Voice harsh, nearly a growl in the metallic throat. "_We_ will go into Suna, _we_ will gather what is needed, and _we_ will leave. Did I mention waiting for you? I don't believe I did. However, I did mention that I do _not_ like to repeat myself.

"Know that I have killed stronger Kazekage's than you. Also know that your words will not bar me from the village of my birth."

Inside the puppet, Sasori flinched grimaced at his own words, regretting the looseness of his tongue. He'd said far more than he'd planned.

Eyes widened, and Gaara's breath came in a sharp hitch. Not because he was reminded that he should be fearful of his would-be captor.

No. It was because of the little facts the other had neglected to keep quiet.

Electricity made wild strokes through his mind, as thoughts connected to memories he had pushed away, buried in favor of knowledge he preferred.

...A village will always teach of its past inhabitants.

A shinobi knows a bingo book as well as the layout of his village. And Gaara found it a wonder he had not recalled the hazy little memory before.

There were puppeteers in Suna. There had always been, as the village practically coined the technique, and any other attempts by other villages were just in futile imitation.

And the thing standing behind him was possibly a work of the best that had ever existed.

That was the thought he created from the fact that this being used puppets, and that he once called Suna his home.

Killed...stronger Kazekages?

That was something beyond his grasp.

He let his eyes shut, and he breathed in again, terribly weary of the hand digging in to his shoulder.

"Where is your puppeteer? Perhaps he could properly speak with me."

"You can speak to me fine through this puppet," Sasori growled, unwilling to reveal just how close he truly was. Inside the arm that gripped the Kazekage's shoulder, the creak of turning gears and the soft clinks of metal could be heard, the hidden blade rotating inside. It was directing itself in such a way that it would bury itself in the shoulder beneath should it be drawn. "It's not a separate being, obviously. Chiyo never fully developed the technique to bring puppets to life. If she had, she'd have sent them after me already."

There was no use in hiding his knowledge of Suna at this point, nor his identity. The Kazekage now knew that he was from the Sand, and if he had gauged the reaction of the youth accurately, he also had some idea of who the 'puppeteer' was. If he did, then it would be wise of him not to push his luck this evening.

Ruffled, but still unmoved, Gaara relented to not push the other to reveal himself.

The blade in the mechanism, or the faintest imagining of it, roused the sand on the stone.

...They were slipping back into hostilities.

And if the other was truthful about killing a Kazekage...although the only Kazekage's fate that was unknown was the Third's. And the Third had gone on without the sliver of a hint to his life or death. Wars had been fought because of that need for any shred of what had happened to him.  
Could this puppeteer have...?

"Fine. I will go into Suna, and you will follow me as you wish." At first he was careful with his words, picking them out to let the other feel as if he was in control. But that intent cast a scathing taste on his lips, and he broke into a sharp disclaimer. "_Harm anyone while you are there, and I will make sure you never receive your demon."_

Gaara did not know how he could fulfill that threat, but as soon as he had voiced it he was certain that he would find a means of doing so.

Anger flared at the threat, but Sasori pushed it away impatiently – there was no point in quarreling.

Briefly, he made a mental note never to bother himself with a fellow redhead again.

"I have no intention of harming anyone in your precious village." He spat, removing his hand from the other's shoulder in a clicking of joints. "Their lives have little meaning to me. The only reason I wish to enter Suna is to keep an eye on you and collect what little I'll need for the journey to our destination."

Stepping away from Gaara, he jerked one arm irritably in the direction of Suna, indicating that it was damn well time to get the whole thing over with and _go_.

Gaara stared after him silently.

The other didn't understand, then. It was because their lives meant little to him that he was so adamant on keeping the puppeteer away from them.

Sasori. Of the Red Sand.

That was the name he had heard. There was no face in his mind to match it, save for perhaps some aged, sharp featured elder, with a scowl to match the ragged voice.

He began moving, and the sand at his feet tailed along like some flock of loyal dogs.

He wouldn't be able to tell Baki. He would hold him fast to his responsibility to the village. Matsuri? As her 'teacher' he doubted he could lie to her face. And the entire situation reminded him too much of what happened two years ago to force her into that again.

Temari.

If he came to her professing a need for some time away, for a little 'vacation', as she had been suggesting that he took some daylight to himself, she might agree.

She might even keep it a secret.

Not that she was an option anyways, seeing as she was off on a mission.

That only left Kankuro.


	2. Retaliation

"I've got to go, Kankuro. For a day. Suna can be on its own for one day, can't it?"

"It's still...you know. Gaara."

"Even if it looked bad with me going off for a day, wouldn't it look worse if I showed up to the council, exhausted?"

"I'm not saying for you not to go, but just think about it."

Kankuro wasn't suspicious. Of course not. Blinking back sleep with his paint merely smudges on his face.

Gaara had hardly been away from the village for an hour, even though it felt like days.

But his brother extended a hand to pat his shoulder.

"I'll admit it, though. You deserve a break."

Gaara forced his inkling of a smile. A tiny lift of the lips that faded too quickly to really be genuine.

Getting to his feet and stepping away from the table he had been seated at with his brother, Gaara moved to the door.

"Tell Matsuri that I won't be able to make it for tomorrow morning." His last statement was blank, as he walked out the door, and into the near lifeless streets of Suna at around one in the morning.

A puppet dropped down from the side of the house upon which it had been previously perched, listening and watching to be sure that its captive said nothing to cause alarm or prompt a search party. He hadn't, which suited Sasori just _fine_. The amount of time he told his brother he'd be away could've been longer, but there was nothing particularly wrong with it. The search parties probably wouldn't be sent out until late the second day, or perhaps early the third. By then, the pair would be long gone.

Wooden feet clacked softly against the pavement as Sasori fell into step beside Gaara, the tall, gaunt form of the puppet hidden beneath the cloak. He'd fashioned the oversized collar into a makeshift hood, though it required some hunching to be functional. Anyone who happened to glance outside would see nothing but their Kazekage and some darkly-clad other walking down the empty, unlit street. A little odd, but nothing suspicious. At least, not nearly as suspicious as an unmanned manikin.

Next, the storage areas.

The only promise he'd made was not to harm the villagers – damaging some of their equipment and tainting a few of their supplies wasn't part of the deal. The poison he would use would only be fatal if the consumer was either a glutton or a weakling, and everything else would simply hinder their progress and the effectiveness of their weapons.

Besides that, the redheaded child had only said 'harm no one while you are there'.

After effects not included.

"Collect what you will need, and do it quickly." The puppet rasped, turning its head to look at Gaara. "I need a few things myself; joint lubricants and whatnot. We'll meet outside of the facilities once we're done."

Joint Lubricant? Was this 'Sasori' that much of an old man? Oh. No, it was lubricant for the puppet, obviously.

Gaara nodded, and the pair parted company.

Five days of supplies. Gaara had to hope no one would see him out of the village carrying that much food and drink. Anyone would be able to tell he was either packing for more then one or packing for an extended trip. Thankfully, he acquired a small satchel, which, after being filled, could have held a varying amount of supplies at the same basic shape.

...He really was uneasy without his sister being in the village. Anyone outside of the borders might be endangered. But then again, with the golem trotting around within the village itself, it mattered very little.

Finished and stocked with dried fruit, water, soldier pills, bread, dried meat, and some root vegetables, he leaped up to stride along the village rooftops before heading once again to the village gate.

Sasori collected what little he needed for himself; oils, a few extra hinges, cleaning cloths, and a some plants rather particular to Suna that he favored for the creation of his poisons. Not only that, but without these plants, the village would have nothing to cure their sickened Shinobi with once he'd fouled their food supplies. The elders would be busy enough trying to keep the village functional _without_ Gaara to worry about. However, _with_ him to worry about...they would be frantic for lack of ninjas that were in any shape to pursue.

The equipment was easy enough. Bend a few kunai here, curve a few shuriken there, wear and tear at the straps and blankets and clothes a little bit...All undetectable, but their aims would be wretched and their gear would fall apart. What would they be able to do?

Absolutely nothing.

Shortly, he was on his way back to the rendezvous point, a smile fluttering over his invisible lips.

_Easy. So easy._

**xXxXx**

Gaara waited, standing just over the second outcrop on the great outer wall of Suna. He was high above the gate exit. Had you not known he was there, you probably wouldn't look up to see him.

_I am giving myself up for my village. I have to wonder why._

_Because as the Kazekage it's right right thing to do?_

_Because I want to be recognized even though none but the puppeteer know I am giving myself?_

Maybe he just felt his life had more value this way.  
Surrendering, paying a price to save others.

Shukaku was as irritable as ever, aided by the night sky in his fights for control. But he was nothing more then a buzzing at the back of Gaara's mind at this point.

The puppet leaped from the folds of the night to perch itself on a ledge just above the one upon which Gaara waited, a silent black shadow invisible against a silent black sky, the luminescence of the moon dimmed by a wandering cloud. Gaara shot it a dark look as it turned to look at him with a soft wooden creak.

Hidden in the folds of his cloak were the objects Sasori had gathered, some stored away in compartments he'd built, others tied to the hidden arms or held in the hidden hands.

"I have what I need. Let's go." His tone – distorted as it was by the puppet – still conveyed his creeping sense of discomfort, his growing impatience to be gone from the village.

On his way to the gates, he had passed over a residence that seemed too familiar for comfort. One that whispered of unwanted memories, bittersweet recollections of faces and names and words and voices that he had shoved to the back of his mind an age and a half ago. It was a house that he recalled waking up in every morning for nearly twelve years, falling asleep in for just as many, living in, learning in, loving and being loved in.

Sasori wanted nothing to do with it.

Giving a nod. Gaara jerked his head in the way of the horizon.

"Lead the way."

His captor had been from Suna once, then? Born in the village? He worked his brain, trying to recollect who the man was and what life he might have had.

Honestly, he could remember little at all. But his parents had been killed. Grandmother and Great-Uncle were still alive though. Those useless facts, and his status as a puppeteer, were the only things he knew about him. The only pictures in the Bingo book were of him mugging for identification at twelve and a sketch of what he might have looked like. Both pictures were about twenty years out of date. The bingo book information on him hadn't been updated in about that long.

_Akatsuki, was it?_

A flick of his wrist, and the puppet launched itself into the empty desert.

There was a moment during which he seemed to float weightlessly in the air, the cloak whipping behind him. It was a moment that stretched into an eternity, as such things were sometime prone to do, and Sasori relished in the simple, pristine beauty of the desert he had come to despise. Never would he care for it, but always he would marvel at it.

Then the wooden limbs touched the ground below, and his thoughts were brought back to earth along with his body. Bounding over the desert, his movements somewhere between running and leaping, he focused a small degree of attention on the chakra string that attached Gaara to his hands, feeling it stretch and thin as the distance between them widened.

_Come along, boy. We haven't all night..._

_...Well, actually, we do._

A flutter of clothing, and Gaara fell through the air to land stiffly on the sand. His sandals made tracks in the desert, but he knew within a few hours the tracks would be gone, forcibly claimed by the wind.

He would be gone without a trace and no one would be aware of it until tomorrow. What a thought to consider.

A stroke of regret whispered in his mind. He hadn't a chance to give anyone a proper goodbye.

Oh well. They could remember him well enough without some announcement of his departure.

Even though he felt slightly like a dog on a leash, he followed, picking up his pace to follow the other three paces behind.

"So. Is it the Akatsuki?" He asked, after counting the steps he took to a hundred.

Sasori glanced over his shoulder at the boy, scowling inside of the puppet. With a noncommittal grunt, he looked away.

A moment later, he answered grudgingly.

"Yes."

_If he's cooperative enough to come along quietly, the least I can do is tell him what he already knows._

Feeling what little obligation he had to be fulfilled, he returned to his thoughts.

The hideout wasn't far, but with Gaara at his side – a fully human being with fully human needs – the trip would be longer than the two days it had taken Sasori to travel the distance. Of course, he'd been moving almost nonstop, requiring no food and little sleep. He'd dozed only for an hour in forty-eight. By this point, he was growing slightly weary, but not so much that it hindered him, and not so much that he needed to stop. Far from it.

Deidara hopped aboard his thought train.

Doubtless his partner would be irritated at being left behind. Not that the puppet master particularly cared – more worrisome was the tidbit that followed hot on the blonde's heels: _Pain probably won't be pleased that I brought the Jinchuuriki back before planned._ The Akatsuki leader was strict. When he gave an order, he expected it to be followed to the word. The mission was to gather _information_, not to gather the bijuu.

Sasori's steps faltered at the thought of aggravating him, and the puppet stumbled. Regaining his balance, still grimacing at Pain's imagined anger, a string of colorful words formed in his mind, ending in one concise phrase:

_Please don't let this damn thing get me killed._

Gaara was silent with his own thoughts.

So. It was the Akatsuki, the terrorist organization that had been hearing rumors about for around ten years. It was only until recently that they really had started getting credible, but Gaara was flustered by how little he acknowledged them. Especially after Naruto was confronted.

From what he had heard, they were quick working and powerful. Perhaps not quick working, as the one he had obviously 'met' seemed more strategic.

...They were collecting the Bijuu. He was playing right into their hands.

From this point he could see rather clearly how naive he had been. Even through sacrificing himself, that would only take Suna out of their attention temporarily. They were of a world conquering type, they would return to his village eventually.  
Which might not be able to fight them off, if they had the Shukaku in tow.

Even though it was all conjecture, he quite believed every word of it. But he made no outer showing of it, as he continued to follow along. It would be best for him if he played along at this moment. They had time.

For a while there was nothing said between them, the only sounds being their feet as they touched the ground, the whistling of the air as they passed through it, the flapping of cloth, and the occasional creak of the puppet as its body was jarred. The walls of Suna shrank away behind them until it was only a dark smudge against the darker sky, and then it vanished altogether. The flat terrain of the Wind extended infinitely in all directions. The smooth sand was occasionally broken by rocks or dry scrub, but such variations in the otherwise unchanging landscape were few and far between.

Open desert after dark was an otherworldly sight, even to those that have been raised on the sands their entire lives. The sand was bleached white, and every little change in elevation could be easily seen. Above them the sky would be a half globe of ebony, punctured only by the pinpricks of light and the moon. Especially when the desert was flat and without landmarks, as it typically was, one would begin to feel they were walking the boundary between life and death.

Not to say the desert was still at night, though. Snakes and lizards and insects came out from the grains below them, hissing, rattling and chirping to commune with one another. Leery eyed owls came from shrubs to hunt the insects. Toads sometimes appeared, but only in the more merciful patches of desert.

Actually, nighttime at the desert was rife with activity. Gaara's Shukaku was no doubt more attuned to the natural order of things than the villagers, who boarded themselves up out of fear of the darkness and the ghostly sandstorms that always seemed about to occur.

The star-flecked blackness of the sky began to lighten to pale grey. As the sun came to rise, the chilly breath on the landscape was drawn away, and the creatures of the sand punctually made their return to their burrows and nests.

Sasori stirred from his still thoughts to ponder the distance they'd covered.

In the few hours they'd been gone, their progress had been good: the shrubbery was appearing more frequently, and was also beginning to appear livelier than anything they'd previously seen, which could only signal that they were beginning to approach the boundary of a different region. They were still in the Wind Country, but they weren't far from leaving it. At this rate, they'd be passing through the River Country by noon.

Of course, that was assuming that his 'companion' was up to it.

"How are you doing?" Sasori tossed the question over his shoulder, slowing only slightly. "Tired? Hungry?"

As Gaara observed some horned reptile bury itself in the dirt, that his companion spoke.

Lifting his head, he looked in the puppet's direction, and gave a shrug.

He didn't get tired...well, in truth, he was always tired, but he would never miss rest enough to actually be inclined to fall asleep. Gaara burned his own chakra for energy, and it kept him securely awake and alert.

"Not hungry right now."

But he stopped suddenly on the sand, and folded his legs into a seated position. A whole slab of earth was lifted up off the ground, and Gaara reclaimed his pace, riding on the floating platform. Admittedly, his legs could use a little rest.

Sasori couldn't have denied his surprise when Gaara turned the ground into a means of transportation, but he shook it off – such things should be expected. However, it was a rather unpleasant reminder of just how much power Gaara had over the very earth he tread upon. Imagine if his fellow redhead suddenly became rebellious.

_Peh. Nothing I can't handle. Just bothersome and time-consuming._

Self-assurance was the best of comforts.

Turning his attention away from the boy, he reworked his travel plans. Obviously they would need to stop less than he had initially suspected; Gaara didn't seem to fall prey to sleep, and hunger he could probably handle while they traveled. In that case, his gauged the amount of time they would be moving to be no more than three days. At most. He would need to make a stop once they were out of the desert to clean up his puppet – he was becoming uncomfortably aware of the steadily increasing amount of chakra he needed to use to keep the limbs moving smoothly. The joints were getting gritty, and the constant scratching of the sand wasn't good for them anyway. He hadn't really designed this puppet to be in the open air of the Wind Country.

"We'll stop at the border of the River Country. We should be there in a few hours."

_Stop, clean up, rest up, and keep going._

A few hours? Already so much time had passed, and his window of opportunity was closing shut. He had an advantage in the desert. Perhaps not enough to defeat the foe, of whose power he had yet to witness, but it was the one advantage he held.

They were far away enough from Suna, though. The village would be shielded from harm...so long as the other hadn't planted precautions back in his village. There would be no way of knowing it if that were the case. But he would be harming the village just as much as if he did nothing.

He had to act. Even if it seemed selfish, he had a responsibility to.

Chakra rushed through his body and out into the earth around him. The platform he sat on folded up around him, into a makeshift shield, and no less then five swollen tendrils of sand came up on all sides around the two figures. Where the desert limbs of last night had been careful and slow moving, these thrashed out at the puppet.

Gaara first wanted to gauge his movements.

Sasori yanked the puppet into the air, twisting its body around raking pillars of sand, sometimes using them to launch itself in a different direction. Inside, his lip curled in an irate snarl, his eyes narrowing.

_Foolish boy._

_Stupid, foolish boy._

_Hide in your ball of grit for as long as you can - you know nothing of me yet. Sand will only protect you from the smoke for so long, because even when the grains are packed as tightly together as they can possibly be, air will slip between them. You cannot hold your breath for the long weeks I can wage this war if you so will it._

The black cloak became little more than a clinging scrap of cloth as the loose ends were shaken off by his movements, more of it ripped away by Gaara's onslaught. What little was left disintegrated almost completely when the puppet's main virtue was revealed by a hand that jerked back harshly inside of it:

Arms. _Lots _of arms.

The original five on each side became ten, then thirty, then more as panels flipped open to reveal previously concealed tags, each one bursting into a multitude of limbs. He'd used something similar on the puppet he'd made of the Third, but unlike the Third, this one _specialized_ in its numerous appendages.

One thousand arms, each one made of reinforced wood and steel, each one with no less than three joints, each one harboring poisoned blades and needles and venomous gasses and – of course - yet more tags. One thousand hands functioned as both weapons and shields, any that became damaged rapidly replacing themselves, their numbers extending nearly to infinity. Their presence slowed him down and limited his movements, but barely – it took little effort to attach chakra strings to every one, less effort to use them. He invested meager thought in unfolding the impossible number of blades hidden in the hollow between nearly every pair of joints.

The light of the true sunrise – one of brightness and color and the soft echoes of the heat that would come much later in the day – was devoured by the dripping, seeping blackness that stained every sharpened edge.

"Are you truly so forgetful, Gaara of the Sand?" Sasori growled, his voice magnified to a metallic roar. Ten of the palms of his puppet's hands splintered as miniscule pipes jutted out of them. "Or is it that you take my words as bluff? When I told you I could destroy Suna just as easily from Kumo as I could from its gates-" Tendrils of purple vapor drifted from the gaps, staining the air. "-I _meant it_. Persist in this foolish endeavor, and your village will be a dead one. That I whole-heartedly promise you."

_Do not think that because it was once my home that it is by any means safe._

Even now, as he twitched his fingers, he could feel the miniscule objects of death his had left behind in the village stirring at his will, a stray fume that floated into a nearby window causing a woman to stumble as her body became numb and her vision clouded.

And let's not forget the little thread he had attached to the back of the Kazekage's head.

Gaara had long been familiar with Kankuro's puppets. They were murderous contraptions, bulked with weapons hidden in every possible crevice and joint. They held poisons, spring loaded needles, explosives, and all other manners of assorted nightmares.

But Kankuro's puppets were nothing like the one he was facing now.

Now that an attack had been revealed, Gaara wanted to stop, nearly balking from the size and the magnitude of the machine.

_...No._

Enough! Enough of threatening his village, enough of being intimidated! The only way he could promise his village any safety was by taking this Akatsuki down _now_. Yes, the puppet was beyond any device he had ever seen, but he was Gaara of the Desert, and he would make the desert his arena!

The sand around them bulged and curled like the waves of a wild sea. If Sasori chose to display so many arms, then Gaara would match it. He drew quickly away from his spot, sand spiraling around in anticipation for any attack. Finally, prodded by the intensity of his chakra, more and more jagged limbs resembling the mammoth arms of the demon within Gaara rose up, and the massive waves swallowed up the boy's figure.

Three Gaaras then floated on Sand platforms in the air, each seeming to command the limbs to rush towards the puppet, to try and crush his wooden arms. It was a fair strategy. It might have worked, if Gaara had noticed and severed the faint string of chakra that connected him to his adversary. Like a beacon, it would lead his enemy right to his hiding place within the deeper mass of sand that most of the arms spawned from.

Deep within his self created cocoon of grains, Gaara focused his third eye on the outside, watching for any event that would force him to claim a new hiding place. Inside him Shukaku, despite being deprived of its preferred night, roared and roared, was beckoning the boy to use its energy to crush the puppet where it stood.

Sasori's lip curled.

_So be it._

All it took was the careless twitch of a finger, and somewhere in the distant village a puppet small enough to fit into the palm of his hand bit down on a sac of concentrated poison gasses. The blast was silent, but no less fatal than one of Deidara's finest creations, spreading out over a massive section of Suna in a roiling, swirling cloud that dimmed the light that filtered down from the sky. People began to stumble and collapse, screams cut off as their makers crumpled to the ground.

The plants that might have saved their waning lives were gone, and there were still four more of his little smoke-capsules to be set off.

Gleaning what little satisfaction he could from the destruction of the village, Sasori dedicated his attention fully to the battle at hand. It could've been a better situation, but he wasn't complaining. Still nothing he couldn't handle.

Any illusions the boy created as a lure were utterly ineffectual. He already knew without the slightest question where his target _truly_ was – hiding away in his mass of sand, believing that it would protect him for some reason. Of course, he was wrong. All it would take was a moment of closeness, and the upper hand would be his. The puppet master wasn't stupid enough to waste time or energy attempting to destroy the bijuu-modeled claws that swiped at him, either. They were nothing but sand, and would simply regroup when broken.

With a flick of his wrist, he jerked the thousand-armed puppet into the air, ignoring the clones and launching himself in the general direction of the _real_ Gaara instead. Like before, he used the many limbs of the desert to propel himself forward, slashing away tendrils that came uncomfortably close with fifty blade-bristling arms.

Only a tad bit closer, and he would show the boy just how big his mistake truly was.

Gaara's created limbs all were crumpled in the face of that assault, their cruel forms bursting with shuddering hisses.

If he thought it necessary, he could have conjured up a shield that would have stopped the puppet in its tracks - he was sure - but he didn't have time. The loosely packed sand he had encased himself in would do little to protect him now.

It would be a maneuver he thought little of, but at the moment he was running out of options.

Clasping his hands, he brought his feet together, and sank down around twenty feet deeper under the desert's surface.

Already he sent out his chakra to the richer minerals below him, gathering up firmer, stronger sand.

He would launch a better counter-attack. But the puppet's sudden awareness of his location had caught Gaara off guard.

Frowning, Sasori glared at the hidden shape of the Kazekage.

_Burying ourselves alive now, are we?_

_How annoying._

All it would take would be something small, simple. A miniscule scratch. A whiff of smoke. Even that much was beginning to become a trial as the Jinchuuriki burrowed into the earth, hiding himself somewhere below. Sasori wasn't about to risk going down there – not even close. Though he was capable of following, it would be absolute idiocy to do so; one does not swim with the sharks. The only option would be to bring the demon vessel above the ground, where he was more susceptible to attack. A moment without protection was all that was needed.

Easy enough. But he'd only have one chance at it before his tactics were fully revealed, so he'd have to make it good.

_So I ought to pull out a few more puppets to make it _really _good._

Producing a scroll from within the body of the puppet, Sasori flung it open with the flick of a wooden wrist, others grasping it and holding it still as he activated it. Not his best, but definitely plenty strong enough for this battle. Plenty.

Two of his creations burst forth in a swirl of smoke and dust, chakra strings already twining around limbs that multiplied as readily as those of the one he hid inside of. Blades shot out of slits in their arms, unseeing eyes were frozen ahead, their jaws hanging slack to reveal serrated teeth. Unlike the red and black remains of the cloak he wore, they were clad in simple, tattered grey. Copies of the original, nearly identical to it. But the number of extra tags was fewer, the amount of poison in their wooden bodies was lesser, their movements were slightly less coordinated.

Just the same, they were not to be taken lightly.

Somewhere below the sand, Gaara opened his eyes.

A counter attack...here it went.

He spread his energy out, the mixed sand lurching all around him.

He would smash the other puppets, like dolls to the golem he would create.

Out from the desert's flat surface, a giant knoll of sand swelled and expanded, rising up into the air and slowly solidifying into a direct form.

In fact, the giant creation out of sand was crafted to exactly resemble the Kazekage beneath the ground.

And with a distinctively disgusted expression on his face, it swung down a several thousand kilogram fist towards the second of the gray clothed puppets.

Sasori cursed silently as the grey puppet plummeted, the jerk of his hand only tugging it partway out of reach of the attack – the mass of arms on its right side were severely damaged beneath a fist of unreal proportions, crushed, a congealed heap of splintered wood, jutting, fragmented metal, and a dripping gush of poisons. That half of its torso was useless, as was its leg. A few stray tags that had revealed themselves when the arms around them were broken produced a few more limbs that were notably ineffective.

_Meh. Might as well get rid of the extra baggage._

At the twist of his hand, the crumpled arms and leg detached themselves with a screech of metal, dropping to the ground with a dull thud. Still undamaged arms appeared, though they lay limp and unmoving after their initial burst into existence. Freed of its useless burden, the puppet lifted back into the air beside its twin. It was now faster and more agile, if not as powerful, and he meant to make good use of what was left of it.

_My turn._

The pair spun away from the original, their hands shooting out. Each spiraled around the massive form of Gaara in opposite directions, their movements without pattern, random and unpredictable, nearly impossible to follow. Pipes broke through their palms, and poisoned gasses rushed out in a thick, venomous cloud. Trailing their malignant fog, they swirled around the sand until its shape was only a vague shadow within.

What was when their steel-lined mouths snapped open.

The fully intact puppet spat a stream of fire, its teeth softening and slumping like wax in the heat while its clothes smoldered. Fortunately, its body had been fire-proofed. The blaze flowed over the sand, turning grains into molten glass. The damaged puppet changed its course to follow the other, drenching the dripping, heated path in the spray of cold water that it produced. Solid to liquid to cracking, splintering solid. And still the toxic haze was thick around the pseudo-body Gaara had created.

A wry smirk that none could see.

_Pop goes the weasel._

Sasori yanked a chakra string.

A very particular chakra string.

The one attached to the back of the Kazekage's head.

Flamethrowers? _Flamethrowers?_ Gaara should have known better, should have expected the flames that licked the sand of his massive copy, and changed it forcibly into glass. But he hadn't, and definitely hadn't even expected the follow-up to come in a form of a water jet to make the most of his weapon useless.

The glass was foggy, in poor quality, and snapped in fractures when Gaara attempted to move it.

But what caught him the most was the sharp yank at the back of his head, that sent the Shukaku screaming in aggravation, and completely threw him off his concentration.

In a noise resembling a cross between an avalanche and several hundred windows shattering, the stiffened effigy of the Kazekage began tumbling towards the ground.

Gravity sent the glass shards (unbelievably large and pointed) downwards into the ground, piercing the protective sand around Gaara.

The boy was forced to abandon his hiding place, bolting out into the open air. Unfortunately, the gas had not dispersed as quickly as he had thought it would.

And even as his sand, still controlled, swam and darted around him, his legs buckled from underneath him.

_Checkmate,_ Sasori thought, his mouth twisting into a rather satisfied grin.

Soon the red-haired rebel wouldn't be able to move at all, and as the poison began to dull his senses, his mind would cloud, and his consciousness would wan. Sand would have little use if he had no arms to move it with. Just the same, he was a force to be reckoned with; for now, at least.

Which was why he approached the boy with caution, wary of the roiling sand, calling his puppets to his side with a flick of his fingers. They came, grey cloaks flapping behind them. Molten steel dripped down the wooden chin of one, the front of the other dark with water. Both had shards of glass lodged in their bodies, glistening in the sun. Blades shone black, thick with poison, multitudes of other weapons concealed within their arms.

"Are you finished yet?" He growled, blades rattling and joints creaking, the wooden eyes of the puppet trained on the body below. "Because I'm getting tired of dealing with you."

Gaara's breathing was slowing for reasons he suddenly couldn't quite place. But he was lucid enough to still recognize he was in danger, even as he lay with his left cheek on the sand, his teal eyes examining the three puppets.

But if he had pupils, they'd be certainly dilating.

His muscles were growing stiff, but still he extended his palm, and three halfhearted arms of sand rose up, only to falter and tumble back to earth.

It hurt. Even as he was forced to withdraw into the confines of his mind, it hurt.

Poison.

He had failed. Risked. And paid the price for it.

On the inside, Shukaku was in a panic. The creature begged his container, who was fading fast, to let him take over.

Silence, and then they were both trapped.

It was a won battle.

A wave of his arm, and the two puppets vanished in a puff of smoke, the air rushing to fill in the gap they had left behind. They had retuned to his workshop, where he would repair them later, replacing the arms and refilling the canisters that contained the poison, reworking the jutsus that created the fire and water.

Settling on the ground, no longer concerned as to whether or not it would attack him, Sasori went on one knee beside Gaara's fallen form. The arms had begun to vanish in a fashion not dissimilar to the way the puppets had, and the white haze hung around him thinly. One thousand became five hundred, one hundred, thirty, and then the original ten. One arm extended to pat the spiked red hair in false fondness.

"Much better." The smile on his lips made his words drip with cold, malicious satisfaction. "Oh, and by the way, your village is under siege. At this point, most of your precious people are probably feeling exactly what _you_ are feeling right now. The children might already be dead."

_Doesn't matter if he can hear me or not. It's the principle of the thing, really._

A slight twitch – incredibly slight – and the rest of his hidden poisons exploded over the village, swallowing the entirety of Suna in a purple miasma. People staggered, collapsing, fading. A little girl clutched a toy to her chest, slumping as her delicate pulse slowed to a stop under the pressure of the toxins.

_**Foolishness. Such foolishness, you little brat. Your precious village will suffocate and perish in this puppeteer's poison and you couldn't even save yourself for the trouble.**_

The confines of Gaara's mind were getting extremely tight. The beast within had to extend its reach to keep it from squeezing down on the both of them. It was like fighting some great pressing cloth.

...they're all going to die?

_**I don't know, brat, but I can practically taste the taint in the air. Ugh. It will linger for weeks and it's all your fault.**_The Shukaku still retained a slight connection to the village, but more deeply to the desert. Such pollution was as detectable to him as a forest fire.

_I wanted to protect them all._

**_Too late for that. You lost your chance when you accepted to come along with this guy. You could have just allowed me to take over, just for a _little bit_. And I'd have smashed him like the oversized cockroach he is. No. Don't even ask me to take over now, kid, you should know there's no point. Your village is hit. There's nothing you can do now. No one you can protect._**

_**Maybe if you're about to die, I'll take over. I'll avenge you.**_

_**You can just imagine everyone you've ever met dying, can't you?**_

**_Oooo. I can feel you squirm. At least your Temari will be safe. She can live to remember just who caused Suna to fall. Won't that be wonderful_?**

Gaara's body was still. But on the inside he might have been screaming.

...In all honesty, he could not be certain as to what actually had happened. Suna was beyond his sight and influence. Whatever Sasori could have done he would be unaware of.

And even the Shukaku wasn't trustworthy...

"I told you that if you cooperated, no one would get hurt." Sasori muttered, five of his ten arms hoisting the limp body over one shoulder. "_Twice_ I told you." The puppet stood, its wooden jaws clacking together as he spoke. "Now I'll have to _carry_ you to the border. Do you have _any_ idea how _aggravating_ that is? I doubt it." He scoffed, plucking at Gaara's red locks with his one of his other hands. "No matter – you can mull over your mistake while you're waiting out the hours it'll take to get to the River Country. Perhaps next time your decision will be wiser."

Gaara couldn't help getting the feelings of deep, sharp dread in the pit of his mind. He retreated, backing up in a corner like some misbehaved child, thinking in broken sentences.

_I need to know._

_What just happened?_

_Need to go back._

And on the outside it was all discomfort and hurt, with the addition of the...uncomfortable contact he was getting from the other.

As for the Shukaku...he was biding his time. He wanted to be near a large city when he assumed control over the boy's weakened frame. Who needed responsive muscles? The demon would make them move through his chakra. And the fate of Suna wasn't really much of his concern. But he hated human influence over his territory, and what had just happened was one of the most disastrous influences imaginable.

Not that Sasori knew the thoughts of either of the two.

Walking, a few paces, jogging, and then falling into a sprint, the puppet rushed over what was left of the desert, eventually leaping into the half-running half-bouncing gait they had used previously.

The vibrant colors of dawn were already beginning to fade, rich orange and red dissolving into a flat, clear blue. Heat began to rise from the ground, shimmering over the surface as the sun continued its arc into the sky. That day began as it would any other, uncaring of the poisons and battles and struggles for life that sent the country of the Wind into such delicious turmoil on that otherwise peaceful morning.

**xXxXx**

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara, Kankuro**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	3. Instability

It was a little past noon when they left the Wind Country behind and entered that of the River, the desert and shrubbery giving way to forests and creeks, the earth solid between thick roots and muddy around streambeds. His captive would probably have trouble with this ground, assuming he could do anything with it at all. There was a reason he was called 'Gaara of the Sand' and not 'Gaara of the Dirt', and that reason most likely had nothing to do with the fact that sand is more dignified than dirt. Most likely.

Sasori settled his burden down in the midst of a thick stand of trees, turning him onto his back and pulling up the sleeve of one arm. The skin beneath it was pale, soft, delicate; exactly what he needed.

Producing a capsule of lilac fluid from one compartment in the torso of his puppet, a fresh syringe from another, he pulled off the cover that sheathed the needle and stuck it into the soft, rubbery cap of the vial, pulling back the plunger and filling the barrel with his homemade antidote. Holding the Kazekage's arm steady with two of his hands, finding the vein at his joint with another, he carefully slipped the glinting metal tip beneath the thin layer of skin. A moment later, the syringe was empty and its contents were in the boy's bloodstream, turning the poison in his body to proteins bit by bit. Sasori wrapped a ribbon of white gauze around his elbow, tying it loose but secure.

_Two hours, maybe. He'll be up and about around then._

_Plenty of time to fix this thing up._

_But first, of course..._

Lifting the Jinchuuriki, Sasori attached chakra threads to him, this time disregarding subtlety in favor of security. Three on his head, one at the base of his neck, two on his shoulders, elbows, hands, one at the middle of his back, another near the bottom of his spine, and one on each knee. These were strong ones, more like chains than strings. An experienced puppeteer would have trouble slicing them, and a bad one would be helpless.

_Perfect._

Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned him to his place on the lush grass, settling him onto his back. After sparing a glance at the bandage, which was stained by a single bright spot of red, he stood.

"I won't be far."

With that, he left the small patch of woodland in search of another.

It didn't take him long to find a place that was suitable for his work. It was a thick slab of granite, old and worn but extremely solid, hanging out over a murmuring, gurgling brook. Upon the rock he was high and dry, as he would need to be, but besides being welcome background noise, the rivulet would be useful for washing the sand away from the more resilient portions of his puppet.

Speaking of which-

Turn of a hand, flick of a finger, and the wooden body that surrounded his popped open with a stiff, hollow snap. From it he gladly detached himself; it was beginning to get stuffy in there.

As was required of members of the Akatsuki, he was clad in the trademark black cloak with its white-lined and highly stylized red clouds. It was small, but so was he. That was half of the reason why he wore the bodies of his creations – few would take him seriously if he did not.

Running a hand through his thick red hair, breathing in the cool, clear breeze that washed over him, Sasori of the Red Sand turned his amber eyes and young face towards his collapsed puppet, a weary sigh passing his thin lips.

_Time to get to work._

The air was a whole lot cooler and wetter. Outside of the desert, the people of Suna were known to get unsettled if there was too much moisture in the air. Just because it was unusual to them (the wet season did come every two years in Suna, on average, and everyone either threw a week long festival or became miserable).

As he breathed more consciously, being drawn from the depths of his mind like a mollusk out of its shell, he detected that he was no longer in the desert. The withdraw of Shukaku's influence worked to confirm this, as the beast's power faded as he left Wind country's sands...

Eyes blinked open, but then squinted in discomfort. The sky above him was lightly masked by green leaves that caught the sun like stained glass.

Everything hurt as he struggled to sit up.

The fight came back to him first, and he noted that he had spent up a good amount of chakra in the useless display. Then came the feeling of dread that something very awful had happened. Something involving slick poisons, and everyone might just be...

He placed a hand on his forehead, brushing back the lengthy bangs in his face.

Where was his captor? No hulking puppet was to be seen here. He looked around with his blurred vision (also noting that abruptly his stomach was screaming at him). He didn't see the trail at first...and if he hadn't been Gaara of the Sand he might have not noticed at all. But around where he sat were little left over trails of sand. It might have been when he was carried...but another trail went off in another direction.

Stumbling at first, he managed to get to his feet, and looked around. The forest was quiet in all directions. Like the puppeteer had followed his chakra strings, Gaara followed the sprinkles of sand as if it were a line on a map. Occasionally the trail would thin, but Gaara could easily pick it up where it left off.

And it lead him to a river, where the first thing that caught his attention was the horrid puppet, looking like an animal on a dissection tray.

Sasori, despite the attachment of the strings on his finger tips, had been too involved in his work and his thoughts to notice that the carrier of the Leader's prized bijuu had moved a full hour ahead of schedule.

The oil-saturated cloth in his hand worked over one of the arms of the puppet, the whole object still dripping from its recent, brief swim. Beads of water glistened on the smoothly sanded wood, damp and tattered clothes clinging, its half-hidden teeth bright and its half-sheathed blades dark. It would take something stronger than water to wash away the poisons he'd seeped his weapons in, and even then they would retain a particular taint that would make wounds quick to infect and slow to heal. One of the hands slipped to the side, clattering against the stone.

All Sasori heard was the whisper of the water below, all he saw were the fine granules of sand that he was slowly but surely wiping away. He'd taken care of almost everything at this point – there was still the interior to be dealt with, and the head, but those were much faster than everything else.

Flipping the cap off of a vial of oil with his thumb, he poured it over the cloth and plugged the little bottle back up, placing it beside him. Turning back to the puppet, he waved a hand.

It lurched forward, jaw clacking all they way open. Reaching inside of its gaping maw, Sasori swiped the rag over its teeth, the fabric snagging and ripping on the jagged razor edges. Swiping away the water, greasing the hinges of its mouth, he examined the remains of the cloth once he was done.

_Good thing I brought extras._

Huffing lightly, bored witless, he dropped the shredded rag at his side and turned to fish out a new one from the folds of his cloak. His mind was occupied by thoughts of changes he'd like to make on this puppet and others, new tricks and weapons and other little surprises.

Still he had yet to notice that he was no longer alone.

Gaara's sight was still unfocused and all of him was aching in some dull haughty throb. But he tottered closer to the river, to the sight of the opened, shifting puppet. A mess of red hair, a tint so familiar he thought some blood had been spilt...And the red hair had a body, and that body was moving.

The puppeteer.

As soon as the thought came to him, another bout of dizziness seized him, and what little energy he had drawn in to be able to stand abruptly left him. In an almost drunken manner, he stumbled sideways, landing on one knee and an elbow. The ground here wasn't as forgiving as that of the desert. He gave a muffled vocalization when he fell.

But his eyes were fixed on the...small looking being in the split shell of puppet.

Sasori froze.

Jarred out of his focus, he became painfully aware of the drastic change in the location of his living 'puppet' – no longer in a distant clearing, as he had been, but rather somewhere beside the river, behind him, struggling near the bank. The sounds he heard had movements he could feel on his fingertips. A stumble, a fall.

_But...how? How did he-?_

_He shouldn't be moving. Not this quickly._

Slowly, stiffly, he turned his head towards the one to which his threads were attached, his soft brown eyes widening in shock within their frames of dark lashes, falling on the form of his previously immobile companion. Weak still, yes, and undoubtedly ravenous - but moving. _Moving_. He'd somehow made it this far, on his own, so soon after being given the antidote...It was incredible, really. Staggering. Not that he was about to get lost in his clinical admiration of the boy; not even close. He'd save that for later, once Pain had taken him off of his hands. Then he would have time to be stunned by it. Not now.

Now, all he wished was to erase the Kazekage's memory of a face and a body that hadn't grown since he'd left the village, close those piercing, pale, turquoise eyes that had pinned him down. The lack of change in his body over the span of twenty years was something he had wished to keep hidden from the citizens of Suna, a secret that they needed to know nothing of.

Now, though...

_He knows it, now._

_Knows that I look no different now than I did then._

For a few seconds, Gaara was seeing double, two layered images of some shinobi that looked remarkably young...Wasn't Sasori supposed to be some cunning, stark, middle-aged man? Not some youth who may as well be barely in his twenties.

Obviously Gaara was seeing things. Some cold illusion to keep him in a daze, in a helpless state to be once again poisoned so he'd be more readily dealt with. He certainly felt helpless, his body suddenly so heavy he didn't want to move. Keeping his eyes open, fixed on the other who was beginning to look a little like himself, took effort. He was blinking too much, looking like he'd rather just slip back into sleep.

The other hadn't moved, hadn't said anything.

Gaara parted his lips, and then closed them again. He...didn't have anything to say.

If the illusion was meant to halt his aggressions, it certainly had worked. It might just have been the boy's lowered energy, but for now the need for violence had been stifled at the sight of that...puppeteer.

Sasori stood, slowly, carefully, moving away from the gutted puppet as though he tread on thin ice. Delicately stepping over limbs that were sprawled haphazardly over the rock, his eyes flicked between the ground and Gaara. His approach was cautious, not dissimilar to the way one might approach a wounded and unpredictable animal. It was unthreatening, not exactly friend but not exactly foe. Neutral.

Of course, the boy probably knew better, but Sasori meant to have an honest effort at getting onto better terms with him.

"You shouldn't move so much." Unlike before, his voice had none of its mechanical roughness. The steely, grating tone that had echoed from between the serrated teeth of the puppet was gone, replaced by something far softer and gentler than before. It wasn't exactly deep, but it did have a steady, brassy element to it, and lacked the high, childish pitch that one might have expected from his body. Every word was smooth, every phrase slipping into the next with the fluid grace of water, unaffected by the harsh tremors of emotion.

Still careful, still cautious, he knelt beside the Jinchuuriki.

"The antidote doesn't work very well when you're active - if you keep the poison flowing through your bloodstream by exerting yourself, it will only take longer. You should rest, Kazekage."

Antidote? Why bother infecting him with poison that paralyzed him if the other only meant to cure him later? It didn't make any sense...unless they had arrived at the destination they were meant to go to.

It was an incorrect assumption. But how was Gaara to know that the poison was meant to more than simply paralyzing? To be eventually fatal?

The other's approach brought the tenseness (to whatever degree Gaara's body was willing to allow; at this moment, very little) back in the boy.

For one who he indentified as his captor, the other was getting way to close.

A scowl played across Gaara's features, him showing a little bit of teeth in the expression. At that moment he almost resembled a weary dog, widened eyes, ears pinned back and just a little bit of lip lifted.

And being referred to as Kazekage was immediately unsettling.

Sasori arched a fine brow at the other's reaction, unmoving. It seemed he was coherent enough to understand who he was and what his words implied, which was an additional accomplishment on behalf of his body and its quick capacity to recover. Movement was one thing – doing it consciously was another entirely.

"I suggest you eat something." Standing, he swatted the clinging dirt and leaves off his knees, dusting his hands off against each other and flexing his fingers. "It takes energy to heal, and we have a long way to go yet. We'll be leaving in an hour or two. Unless you've got other plans, of course." His words were accented by a slight frown, and he crossed his arms in a way not dissimilar to the way the puppet had crossed its own what seemed an age ago, somewhere in the desert outside of Suna. "In which case we may be delayed."

_Delayed, but not stopped._

"Let me know when you're done baring your teeth at me, and I'll help you." Leaning against a tree, his gaze on the irate Kazekage, Sasori sighed and prepared himself for either a long wait or a longer show when the boy tried to help himself.

Gaara stared.

Help him...? Of course. Sasori needed him alive. Whatever life threatening issues came his way, his captor would have to deal with him. That was a mildly good thing.

Looking downwards at his arm, he noticed a small bandage on the inside of his elbow where a pinprick wound had been inflicted.

If Sasori's approach had made him stiffen, the tiny little bloodstain did more. His sand wouldn't protect him in the state he was in. This was apparent. What also had become evident were the facts that they weren't at their destination, and that they wouldn't be leaving for a while.

A tiny voice at the back of his mind beckoned him to return to sleep. It might have been Shukaku. But his stomach pained him more then he could handle.

Placing both hands to the ground, he shifted his legs so his feet were beneath him once more. Shakily, still uncertain, he rose to a stand. And in one gesture (however feeble) of blatant disregard, he turned his back on his captor.

Still wobbling, he began making his way back to the clearing he had first woken up in. Risking his balance, he reached back into his satchel and pulled out a small bag of dried fruit.

Now it was Sasori's turn to stare.

_Absolutely incredible._

_I wonder...is it the assistance of the demon, or is his body simply made to be that durable?_

Intriguing, but he'd have to wait for answers to those questions until later, when the Leader was done with him and Gaara was nothing but a corpse for him to toy with. It wouldn't be the first time he'd manipulated a Kazekage for his purposes after its death.

"Try not to give yourself a concussion if you can help it," He called half-heartedly after the retreating figure, turning to clamber rather ungracefully onto the rock beside his puppet and remembering again how much he despised being short. If he could do his life over again, he'd wait until his body was a tad bit older and taller before he started messing with it. That he would change, and a few other things besides. Actually, there were quite a _lot_ of things he would do differently. Another one would be preventing his parents from going on that damn mission.

Irritated that he should be thinking of such things, Sasori shoved the thought aside. They really didn't matter at this point. They hadn't then, either, but now in particular they were just meaningless faces and names.

_Puppets don't have feelings, remember?_

Oh. Right.

Plucking up the spare cloth he'd dropped when Gaara made his undignified entrance, he unplugged the bottle of oil and soaked the fabric, pulling a mess of arms into his lap and going over them slowly, deliberately. Tuneless, wordless noise from the water below, coupled with the pointless and repetitive movement of the rag over the wood cleared his mind, erased his thoughts.

In time, the arms and legs were rubbed spotless, and as he dedicated himself to finishing off the head and cleaning out the torso, he took silent relief in the fact that he was as alive as the cold, hard wood beneath his hands. He and his creation were so alike in so many ways. Neither of them had nerves, neither of them was capable of falling prey to pain, neither could so much as be brought to their knees by things that would kill other ninja...

If only they were _exactly_ alike.

If only he could get rid of that living core.

Then he could be everything he truly aspired to be. Not just some incomplete puppet.

Some distance away, Gaara sat down on soil once more, now that the other was out of sight. He found himself eating with more vigor than he was accustomed to. He downed the dried fruit and the several pieces of bread, reminding himself of Temari when she was in one of her more fervent moods, which Kankuro would always be tentative and quiet during. And still his stomach burbled, communing its discomfort to him in its less-then-mild way.

_**You could always just run, kid.**_

...not in the state I'm in. My bones will snap if I try. Or at least, they feel that way.

_**Let me give strength to your bones, and you'll run.**_

In spite of his position, the feeling of dread and his blinking eyesight, he gave a snort.

_**Come on. I know even you would take pleasure in hearing this Sasori crunch like the cockroach he is. At least, I do imagine he'll make that kind of noise. Wood splinters and innards, smashed up into pulp!**_The sing song tones echoed in Gaara's head, and once more his body beckoned him to sleep. Some lullaby. The Shukaku had a sweeter voice while inside Gaara's mind then he did outside of it.

But the call was considerably weaker, now that he had nourishment in his stomach to draw off from.

Wooden arms glistened in the midday sun, damp with their layers of fresh oils, moving as silently and smoothly as they had been built to. The interior and blades he'd swabbed over with water, allowing them only a little time to dry before he tucked himself into the gap in the puppet. He brushed his hand over the air before him, outspread fingers coming together at the end of the arc. The puppet folded itself around him. Hinges snapped into place, locking around his body with crisp, mechanical ease.

Flexing his fingers and turning his wrists experimentally, he listened and felt with his chakra for any damage that needed attention. Fortunately, there were none. When his captive had rebelled, he'd been able to use the twins of this main one, the fire and water models. That alone was the reason this one had survived in such pristine condition.

From here on out, however, the Kazekage's power would be limited.

That suited Sasori just _fine_.

Standing, easing back on the amount of chakra he sent to the threads – he'd become so used to moving the stiffening joints that these newly greased ones seemed almost _too_ easy – he leapt lightly off of the rock, landing on the firm earth below with the weightless grace of all puppets, suspended by unseen strings. It would be simple enough to find his way back; the 'leash' he had attached to his Jinchuuriki was as clear as a marked and paved trail.

His Jinchuuriki?

_His?_

Hm. Now, why had he thought that?

_Probably just because I'm his goddamned caretaker._

There was that.

Sasori followed the invisible path as he had before, this time without hurry – though he was beginning to realize that he would be a fool to assume anything about him, he was quite sure that Gaara wouldn't be going anywhere too quickly in his current state. If he was worried about Suna he might make an attempt, but-

Suna.

Ah, Suna.

What state might it be in now?

Focusing his attention of one of the small, dollish puppets still in the village, he looked through its eyes.

A silent street, somewhere below. There were bodies strewn about. All of them still, all of them victims of the poison...all of them living, with the exception of one: a frail girl, no older than eight. However, her gaunt frame spoke of recent illness and an already weakened system. Had she been healthy, her heart would have continued to beat, even all of these hours later. And then, along with all of the others, she would have died. A few days of agony before a slow, torturous death.

All of this he saw with keen satisfaction, a smile playing across his lips.

Until along came a little old lady, a train of medical ninjas following her as ducks would follow their mother. Kneeling by the sides of the fallen villagers, she and the others spread their hands over chests that barely moved, sweat beading on their foreheads as they fought to remove the residues of the gasses from the heaving, gasping lungs. The cloud of toxins had dissipated, but the effect wore on. All he wondered was how the medics had managed to avoid getting poisoned themselves.

_Probably snuck off to an airtight room or something. Holed away until it all blew over and-_

In body and mind, Sasori froze.

The woman had produced a satchel from the folds of her robe, and from that satchel a small tube of pale green fluid. A needle on the end of it was all he needed to see to know what it was.

_Where? Where did they get it? I took everything! EVERYTHING! HOW-?_

Then, she turned her face away from her patient, glancing around the village with a dismal look on her lined, weary face. She seemed to be searching, looking for something she wasn't sure she wanted to find. Cold shock gripped him as he took in her eyes, her face, her hair. The twist of her mouth as she contorted it. All of it too familiar, too reminiscent of a life he had set aside. A young voice that had yet to learn the hardships of life, that he refused to believe was his own, whispered her name in his ear:

_Grandma Chiyo...?_

Anger built slowly into a searing, molten pressure in his chest. Loathing. Outrage.

_Bitch. Fucking old hag. How dare she? How DARE SHE?_

_Of course, she WOULD have a private warehouse of poison antidotes._

Opening his eyes, furious and simmering, Sasori was not a pleasant sight to see. Even within the puppet, his irritation was evident. Blades flashed and glinted as they slipped in and out of its arms without reason or rhyme, hissing against each other and scraping over the wood. Some fingers were clenched, others flexing, others twitching. Its jaw clacked and its teeth rattled, the whole body seeming to tense and vibrate. The former elegance of it had disintegrated into jarring discord.

That was the state of things when he entered the small clearing where Gaara was munching on his simple fare of bread and fruit.

Shukaku could be a persuasive being when he wanted to, much more so than any of the other tails beasts. Mainly because while the other demons spent most of their time forced into silence in the deeper bowels (no pun intended) of their hosts, Shukaku spent a lot of his waking moments communing with his container. At least, as long as Gaara would tolerate him. Infuriatingly enough, the boy could just wave his attempts at conversation away without much thought at all.

But his attempts to talk with the other were working out quite well to his ambitions. The more he spoke to the boy, the more the boy seemed to withdraw back into the more primal regions of his mind. Gaara was captured, alone with no one to give him any orders. Even with his 'position of power' Gaara was always getting directions. He had been directed, shoved, and ordered for most of his life. Acting independently...would lead to him making rather self-destructive choices.

Poor Gaara. Thinking for himself was such an awful thing. That's where Shukaku came in, offering him options, paths for him to take. The gift of security was irresistible to the boy.

Something was coming into the clearing, however, that snapped into the pair's thoughts like the bolt of a crossbow.

It reminded Gaara of some steam engine he had seen during his one very brief time at a non-shinobi city, all the moving parts. It took him a second longer to realize that it was the puppet from before.

The demon felt the boy retreat even further into his fears and insecurities. Gaara immediately raised his guard as well as he could, his chakra failing to go out very far or with any magnitude. The only effect it caused were some lifted grains around his seated form, as he lowered the bread loaf he had been consuming.

Sasori passed Gaara by without a second thought, dismissing the weak flutter of sand. All he could think of was his _goddamned _grandmother and her antidotes, how much he wished he had simply slit her throat with a poisoned blade while she slept on the night he had left. But, _no_ – he had to _care_ about her, had to have some sort of 'humane' sentiment towards her for taking care of him in the absence of his parents, had to let the bitch _live_ to _ruin_ the destruction of the village he so despised.

An incoherent sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a yell translated into a metallic roar from the mouth of the puppet. Five arms slashed simultaneously at the tree to his right, bristling with black-edged blades, stripping the bark away with a crack and leaving the white flesh of the tree beneath it deeply gouged, every cut dark against the pale wood. A second time he lashed out at it. A third. The trunk began to bend back, quivering, as it was sliced through. One more, and it would fall.

But there was no more. He was done. Tired of it.

Still his fury bubbled beneath the surface, but the fire was dying. Pleasant, cool, uncaring calm had already begun its slow and comforting decent. It didn't matter that they had lived, that they were being saved – she certainly didn't have enough to rescue the whole village. If she somehow managed it, all that meant was that he'd have another opportunity to kill them all. Perhaps take a little more time with it. Enjoy it.

The puppet gradually stilled. Weapons retreated back into their narrow slots, hands relaxed, the incessant trembling of its body ceased altogether. Its mouth closed with a final little _chk_ of wood against wood.

Turning his head, he looked over his shoulder at the boy sitting on the grass, partially eaten loaf of bread in his hands.

Jinchuuriki. Bijuu vessel. Kazekage. Gaara.

_You know who I am, but you don't know why, do you? Why I am who I am – _what _I am. And you never will. _No one _will._

Human rages were frightful things; Shukaku had discovered that long ago. Passions of several Kazekages long dead, cries of agony calling for vengeance because of family members he had killed, and even the blunt, unfettered anger of the boy he resided in, anger so unforgiving it threatened to consume even he, the demon. Between the furies he had seen over the years, Sasori's rage was one in a long line of puppeteers. They all fumed similarly. They occasionally let loose one great fit of energy, and then quickly covered themselves up and tried to act as if it never happened.

_**Emotion? Shown by me? Of course not, never!**_Echoed through Gaara's thoughts, in the monster's mocking squeal. (But he had to admit that Gaara's good-for-nothing brother was the exception to the puppeteer mold. But that was only because he had been raised by the wrong family. Nurture always has a bigger effect than original Nature. Gaara was living proof of that.)

This grandson was almost as completely annoying as his grandmother, who was an utter bitch. She was around practically during the first Kazekage's reign, and it was always she who stuffed him in and out of containers. And despite all his efforts - subtle and direct alike - to finish her, the hag never died. If anyone could achieve immortality merely out of being so stubborn, Chiyo would do it first and set a precedent.

He thought little of Sasori, but admittedly he didn't much know the Akasuna member. After all, during most of the time Sasori remained in Suna he had been inside-_that_-_damn_-**TEAPOT**—ugh! At the sudden thought, Gaara's hand on the bread twitched, and it fell into his lap. It made the demon pause, settling his anger as he couldn't help but admire how much of an effect he was gaining over the boy. Shukaku could swallow him whole if Sasori here finally dropped the news on him.

'Yeah, uh, I poisoned your entire village—'BAM!

'You're mine now, prissy boy. I'mma smash you _flat_!'

Oooh. What an event that would be.

But even now Gaara was thinking less and less. He sought out his demon _consciously_, after Sasori had begun slashing that tree. Of course, Gaara wasn't afraid of what Sasori would do to him. There was a time where Gaara would have been concerned for himself, and back then he actually had a survival instinct. Oh...how the demon missed those days. No. The splendid selfishness had ended, and now Gaara was all worried and bothered about the fate of his damn village, and all the miniscule people he carried about. Shukaku actually found the mental image of Baki face down on the ground quite humorous, only because Baki was a humorous looking human. Absentmindedly, he projected the image into his container's mind and chuckled at the reverberating shudder. Finally, he sent forth one arm, and extended his control over the boy's body, finding it quite to his liking.

"Something bothering you, Sasori?" The phrase sounded...quite wrong escaping Gaara's lips. Too deep, as if it didn't come how the boy would usually speak (which was somewhere between nasally and throaty). It was coarser, and spoke of more interest than the wide eyed Jinchuuriki could have managed with all his pitiful social experience.

Sasori stared at the boy, frowning. It was very unlike him to be so bold – and he sounded somehow different. That could've just been his voice recovering from the paralyzing effect of the poison, his vocal chords becoming active again after so little use, but he somehow doubted it. The change was more drastic. Besides the general sound being changed, it was his _tone_. It was...not quite right.

One thing that was imperative to remember was that this was a demon vessel, and one with a bloody history at that. There was no reason to believe that he might be predictable. Keeping a respectful degree of distance and caution was more than slightly important.

Which was why, when he turned away from the Jinchuuriki, he sent his awareness to his fingertips and the strings attached to them.

"Just an old thorn in my side that I should've gotten rid of long ago." Waving one arm dismissively, he examined the damage he'd done to the tree with clinical interest. Perhaps he was loosing his touch – normally he would only have to hit it twice to fell it. Then again, it had been a long trip with a relatively weak puppet. "Though you'll be pleased to know that the bitch is more proficient with medicine than I thought she was. Should've expected it from my grandmother, I suppose..."

There was really no point in hiding the fact that Suna was healing. Clearly Gaara had refused to be broken by the fact it was dead, and he couldn't use it as a bargaining chip if it was out of the game.

_**Oh, ho?**_ Inwardly, the Shukaku mused, as Gaara struggled to catch the meaning of both members of the conversation he was virtually eavesdropping on.

"Goody goody, then." There was no reason to avoid the fact that Sasori was no longer communing with the boy he had captured today. No. That would be rude, and so less satisfying than a direct conversation. "Of course, the good guys always win in the end."

The expression on Gaara's face slipped from a look of pleasant contentment to confusion.

**_Oh Gaara. You still don't know what happened, do you_?**

_Tell me._

**_It's better that you don't learn of it. Besides, the medics will take care of it, so you don't have to worry_—**

_...What?_

Gaara's eyes widened, and he almost seemed to be overtaken by panic for just a moment. It was a rare occurrence here. There was a balance of control between demon and host. Most of the time one clearly overpowered the other, the scale pressed so downwards on one side that the other could do little to influence it. But at the moment the scale was nearly even, just barely tipped downwards towards Shukaku. Gaara still held sway over his body. But the monster held the vocal chords. In another instant the scale tipped another notch and Gaara's lips turned back up into a very uncharacteristic smile. His eyelids drooped, granting him a sleepy, dreamy look.

"Too bad, too. Had your strike been more successful I might have thanked you." Lifting one hand, the boy brought a finger playfully to his parted lips. "But I wouldn't inform me – or rather, inform Gaara – of what you did. He's clinging to me like some lost child now. Yessir. Pretty loose reins he's cast over me. Tread carefully, puppeteer." A smirk, which seemed so unnatural on the red-haired teen.

Shukaku noticed he was feeling very eloquent today. Why was that? Probably because there was a lack of blood scent in the air. The only thing this Sasori stank of was wood polish, grease, and that awful poison...Was he all puppet and no man? Impossible, but it still smelled like it.

Sasori tilted his head ever so slightly to the side.

Intriguing – it would seem that Shukaku had managed to gain control over the boy, suppressing him somehow and using his body as its own. That was something that hadn't happened to any of the other vessels, so far as he knew. He hadn't bothered himself to ask about the activities of the others, but Pain would have informed them to be wary of possessive demons if it had happened before, and if he had known.

_I'll have to tell them about it when we get back._

"You must be the bijuu."

Toneless words, for once not accented by the hiss of blades as they were drawn. He left his weapons where they were. If conflict could be avoided, it would be; the demon was a far less predictable foe, and one he would rather not deal with right now if he could help it.

"Shukaku, is it? I've heard quite a bit about you. Your sealing within Gaara was after my time in Suna, but I remember the other host. Grandma Chiyo told me about those I was not alive to see." Tilting his head to the side, he examined the red-haired boy. Or, rather, the red-haired demon. "Though, of them all, your current container is the most unstable. The one they tried the hardest to kill, but never could. Your doing, I suppose." A shrug. "Though I really should thank you for preserving yourself as long as you have – otherwise, there would be no point in gathering you and your kin, would there?"

_What can he hear with the demon blocking him out, I wonder? How much does he understand what we are saying?_

Well, if push came to shove, he still had those chakra strings and a more-than-sufficient amount of poison. Besides that, the boy had already lost one battle – he was weakened, with or without the assistance of Shukaku. And if things _really_ started looking bad...

_Deidara, you had better be sitting next to one of my puppets, right where I told you not to be, because you'll need to come in a damn hurry if I call you._

How _immensely_ observant Sasori was, the demon sneered inwardly. Poor Gaara was merely a member on the sidelines now, watching the focus go from one side of the field to another with his usual childlike interest.

"You guessed it." The possessed Gaara replied, sweetly. "I'm so _flattered_ that you've heard of me. I can't really return the sentiment, as I never really saw much of you. I was occupied at the time. Or, rather, occupying something, if you catch me' drift."

It was a lot easier not to slur in Gaara's body, as the vocal cords were made for clearer tones and his tongue and lips were of decent proportions. Even though it really was his namesake, he kind of liked not slurring today. The coherent speech made him sound much more thoughtful.

"And I actually wouldn't say that little Gaara would be my most unstable container. In fact he's been quite resilient over the years. He's the only one who's ever lasted this long under the No Sleep vigil. His goddamned _sheer will_ has been working to keep me in line for so long. Pah! But to you humans he's probably the most unstable. With all the craziness, murder, bloodlust and the like. It's all perfectly normal behavior to me, but I can see from the angle the people of Suna look at him, too."

Inside the realms of thought, Gaara shifted at being mentioned so. He almost seemed to make a move to reclaim his body and motor skills, until the demon lowered his influence once more, and took the boy deeper under his wing.

"But if you want to go on to reminisce about all the old folk of Suna, at least, all those before the Fourth's reign—I hated the Fourth. Least favorite Kazekage besides Number five, right here. You can probably guess why—Anyways, I'm all for sitting in rocking chairs and talking about How Things Were Like in Our Time, but I'm not sure that's what you're really interested in."

Gaara was up on his feet, suddenly, viscous chakra forcing the limbs and muscles to move. The beast flexed his container's fingers, sensing the distant electrical pulses of pain warning him not to push the body too far.

"But whatever your aims may be concerning me – as I don't really give a damn what you do to my 'kin' – just know that they won't be succeeding."

Sasori scowled, the steel gears inside of the puppet turning with soft whirrs and clinking against each other as blades turned to more opportune positions and the needles became readily available. The movements the demon had made couldn't have been achieved by his physical body – it had to have been done with chakra, and chakra alone. As if to congratulate him on the speed and accuracy of his observation, he could feel the rush of energy in his strings, far greater than that of the boy even when he was in the midst of battle. Unhindered power that radiated from his body in a palpable haze of strength.

_Interesting._

_And potentially hazardous._

Potentially might not have been the proper choice of word – _definitely_ would have been more accurate. Not for the first time, Sasori cursed himself for his choices; there was a _reason_ all members of the Akatsuki acted in pairs.

"You're out of your element, demon. And your vessel is far from healed. How much do you think his body can take before he dies and takes you along with him?" Good question. One Sasori would very much like to know the answer to. Thus far, the healing of the Jinchuuriki had been erratic and unpredictable, and quite unlike others he had poisoned in every way. It was possible that he was in pristine condition, and Sasori was (to put it bluntly) royally screwed. "Pain's precious little bundle you might be, but I see no reason not to damage you both beyond repair. You'll live long enough for him to do what he needs to."

In his mind, he listed off the available puppet summons, the most effective ones, the most _fatal_ ones, if that was what it came to. He could always bring in the one hundred puppets, though that would take a moment he wasn't sure he would have if they came to blows.

"Out of my element? Maybe, but I'm not far enough from Suna to really be hindered. And I still really find myself hating you. You smell like your grandmother, only worse."

The Shukaku allowed his new body to be still. If he moved how Gaara would normally move (and still that was little) he could end up tearing something. So he wouldn't attempt to use any of the limbs at all, if he could help it.

_**So, Gaara...what will it be? His fate lies with you.**_

_If I was against you fighting him, I wouldn't allow you to control me like this._

_**Hah. Well enough. Silly me, asking permission.**_

"Last chance, you human, you _doll_. Run away and don't look back and you can go on living as you were, and not end up as some splintered smear on the ground."

Snickers, and Gaara blinked his eyes.

His skin seemed to be cracking, peeling away to reveal even paler skin beneath. But his eyes...the irises were suddenly a gleaming gold, and surrounded by black. The bizarre pupils of the beast stared Sasori down.

_**Let's hope he doesn't get smart and attempt to intrude on the transformation.**_ The Bijuu considered, sourly. _**But even that might not work, as sweet little Gaara has already given his body to me. Even if it is just for the moment, I am going to enjoy this.**_

Soil rose up from the ground, and shed its dirtier properties, to come towards Gaara's face in a mass of pale earth.

_**And make that puppeteer bleed.**_

**xXxXx**

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara, Shukaku**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	4. Struggle

_He's changing._

_Is there any way to stop it?_

There was pretty much only one chance to bring the Jinchuuriki down, and that was now – before he was under the

protective cover of the demon, while his fail body was still available to beat and batter.

_Right now._

Without a word, without a warning, Sasori gave his answer to Shukaku's ultimatum.

From every slit in his body, glinting and poisoned metal shot out, either in the form of blades or needle-barbs that were only waiting to be launched. The mouth fell open, row after row of serrated steel revealed, three pipes in place where a tongue might otherwise have been. While he flung his puppet into the air above to get it – hopefully – out of reach of the demon, Sasori yanked out a summoning scroll from within, taking it between his teeth so it would be ready when he needed it. Simultaneously, at the turn of his wrist and the twitch of his fingers, triplet valves popped open in the mouth of his many-armed creation and released a thick, violet cloud that wafted down over the clearing below. An armful of needles followed under its murky cover like slick, glinting, deadly rain.

It was then, there, that he decided that no matter what happened, he would _not_ reveal the reason behind his perceived youth. Even if it meant defeat. That was one thing that he would not give to the demon, and either way, if he were loosing...in the end of it, showing what was beneath his cloak wouldn't save him.

**_Too late, dollface_.**

The ground heaved as the minerals were robbed from it, the burning, horrid chakra reaching out into the very earth below them. And a great swelling of sand rose up in a great mass. It was like the technique Gaara had used previously, with a great golem of himself...but it shuddered, bubbled and shifted as if it were something alive. And as the mass of grains solidified, hardened, Shukaku surely appeared to be living. The needles embedded themselves deep within the flesh of its partially formed stomach. In a few seconds they had been absorbed in the malleable flesh.

A jagged zigzag dragged across a 'face', creating his mouth. Two beady black eyes opened, and they focused on the highly active puppet.

It was immense, and its tail swished behind it, making the air quiver now that the raw power had been fully released. A hundred meters high, and probably more so wide.

Gaara...was no where to be seen, tucked away inside some pocket in the beast.

And apparently not its stomach, as Shukaku gave one great inhale, sucking up a great portion of the poison still in the air - his chest and throat swelling - and then regurgitating a full splatter of the liquefied poison back at the puppet.

Sasori yanked his puppet out of the line of fire, jerking himself to the side with a twist of his hand. Not quite fast enough, though, and the speed and strength of his own weapon turned against him as it passed tore away at the cloak and one of his legs...thankfully not one of the ones physically attached to him.

After that, he could do little but stare at the _thing_ below in a mixture of curiosity and cautious respect.

It was massive – far more massive than he had expected. Out in the middle of the lush, forested lands of the River Country, he had expected the boy's resources to be limited, as well as those of the demon. Somehow, though, he'd managed to _create_ sand from the solid bedrock below, disintegrating it and manipulating it. The ground beneath the impossibly huge paws of the demon sank down, soft and pliable as the space left behind in the earth below filled with water. Clouded brown pools began to form in the depressions that were made where Shukaku stood.

The sand-formed body was bulky, the shape of it seeming almost as soft as Deidara's clay at first glance. But, judging from the way the needles had been so effectively stopped by it, it was much harder than initial impressions would hint, and he suspected that the grains could be compacted together at a whim with the monster in control. However, due to its sheer size, he doubted it could move with much speed or agility. Perhaps all it would need would be an attack too big to avoid, but for the moment he could consider his dexterity his main advantage – possibly his only advantage.

_I have numbers on my side._

_But will numbers even help in this situation?_

Considering what he already knew, the chances of more puppets being any use at all were slim.

_Needles: useless._

_Blades: even more useless_

_Gasses: apparently also useless_

Three of his primary weapons, and none of them were effective. And if the creature was using chakra to move its body, then even scratching the true Gaara and sending his body back into a state of paralysis would do nothing. What was there left to do?

_Run._

_No. Never. I'd rather be captured or killed._

_Really?_

Yes. Of course.

Looking into those yellow-black eyes below, seeing the body to which they belonged, he knew it would be a short-lived battle, and most likely one not in his favor. A part of him murmured that this would be the end of it. Today, in some nameless patch of trees in the midst of a country that was never given so much as a slightly notable mention, he would lose a costly battle. Another part of him refused to care. Perhaps that was the part that was more puppet than human, and wouldn't have minded whether it lived or died because the only significance of its existence was to murder and mangle and destroy everything it came into contact with. Yet another felt a flicker of fear and a slight taste of _I don't want to end my life today_.

Not that any of that mattered. All that was important was the battle at hand, the enemy before him, and the options he could choose from.

Tags were exposed to the air as panels on the ten arms flipped up, and while the number of his limbs doubled and tripled and quadrupled and more, Sasori pulled the scroll from between his teeth. It was a tight fit inside of the puppet, but after a moment of fumbling, he managed to unroll it, allowing it to fall open with the thin strip of paper separating his chest from the back of that of the puppet.

_This will decide it._

An explosion beside and above him as the space previously occupied by nothing but air was filled by a body crafted of wood and metal, concealed within the folds of an extravagant robe in the typically rugged style of puppets. Long black hair, empty eyes, a face that was – once upon a very long time ago – human and living.

_The Third Kazekage._

_This is either the end or the beginning, Shukaku. For you or me._

The murky brown water at the demon's feet was irritating, more so then he could tolerate, as he had to expend a fair amount of energy to keep his leg structures from getting soggy.

He was creating a swamp in the lush river lands. Hah. He loved his effects on the environment. Viscous liquid pooled out of his jagged teeth, dripping thickly onto his fattened neck, and there it dripped further along to land on his chest. The poison tasted disgusting. But it reminded him of home. He had tasted a liquid like it before in the resulting jelly that was made when he had once crushed a puppeteer in his jaws.

Suna. Ah. He would be home soon.

He lifted both forearms, snapping his jaws in heavy clunks. Come here little fly, little beetle insect.

He saw its arms multiply, remembering Gaara's battle with it before. That puppet would gain no subtly from him. He would crush the arms and crush their source the doll. In the midst of his planning, he wrapped himself up in devious thoughts. Of shattering and tearing, and of stomping his way across the world once more.

So the Bijuu found itself quite off guard when another puppet was summoned.

One with a face he recognized so incredibly well.

Oh no.

This was a joke. This had to be.

But this Sasori was quite the artist, as that was the Third's face, without any mistake.

In earth shaking movements, the creature shifted backwards, mud sloshing noisily beneath it. The recognition had made the creature's bravado falter. So it inhaled deeply and sighed a mixture of poison and grit out through its nostrils.

"**Admirable work, human.**" It bellowed back towards the puppet.

The puppet smelled—or Shukaku imagined it to smell, as it was a wonder he could smell anything at all through all the toxins riddled through his insides—faintly like blood. The Third's blood.

That damn Kazekage who watched Shukaku so intently, monitoring his every movement. That Kazekage who crafted his famous jutsu off of the bijuu's movements.

How he hated that man.

_Human?_

_Don't insult me, ichibi._

Sasori couldn't help but be slightly pleased at the way the bijuu seemed to hesitate at the sight of his puppet, stepping back in a way that was marginal to it but massive to him. Clearly he'd stuck some kind of nerve with the summoning. Had he not, the monstrosity below would never have gone so far as to hint at a complement in the words it shouted to him, its voice vibrating in the steel bones of his puppets.

"Some of my best, demon." He murmured, doubting that the creature would hear his response - it wasn't really meant to be heard anyway. Mostly he spoke out of habit.

Pulling the protective shell of the puppet he hid in father away with one hand, he flexed the other and twisted his wrist, jerking it forward a moment later with his palm and arched fingers facing the demon below. The response was an erratic clattering and clicking as the body of the Third Kazekage lurched to life at the tug of his chakra strings. Rising above the bulk of sand below, it seemed very, very small...but Sasori knew better than anyone just how powerful Sandaime was, in life and in death. The hitokugutsu jutsu had in no way weakened him. In fact, with his newly acquired ability to hide metal and poison in his body, he had only become more dangerous.

_A worthy example of my art indeed._

He thought about the best way to use his prize piece, and came to the conclusion that he would have – at best – two chances to use the physical body of the puppet against his gargantuan opponent. They would be risky chances, but chances nonetheless. Of course, he could always just forget every concealed weapon in the changed body and go straight to the iron fillings. Really it all depended on the behavior of Gaara's host; should it provide openings, he would send his creation down to take full advantage of them. However, putting aside the more close-range-oriented aspects of it and focusing his attention on the long-range abilities would be more logical in this case...Better not to take unnecessary risks if he could avoid it.

_Sand against sand, then._

_This should be interesting._

The wooden mouth of the Third Kazekage fell open with a dull clack, and from it drifted an indistinct cloud that flashed and glittered in the sunlight, reflecting the brilliance of the sun in brief glints as grains twisted and turned in the air. The haze of metal hung around the body it poured from with growing thickness, a seemingly inexhaustible stream of fragments flowing from between the jaws of the puppet.

Sasori twitched a finger experimentally, and the fog of that obscured his prize puppet from view shifted to the side, some of the miniscule filaments clumping together in narrow, needling shapes.

The corner of his mouth curved upwards in the beginnings of a smile.

_Behold, Shukaku – the Iron Sand technique of the Third Kazekage of Suna._

Dark grains spread throughout the sky, a sharpened cloud of metal shards.

Neither the Third nor the Fourth had been able to perfectly use Shukaku's sand techniques. Both had tried, diligently, furiously, to be able to control the desert as well as the beast made of its essence.

The Fourth, in his pitiful impatience that made him make such poor political choices in his short-lived career, could only manage to manipulate stone. The chunky, flimsy rock he could bring from the ground around him. In a shinobi's world he _was_ powerful. In Shukaku's eyes, he was the equivalent of one part sake, nine parts water.

But the Third? Ah. That little shrew was a different story. He was the one who came the closest. Even now Shukaku could remember how intently that Kazekage observed him, trying to crack the secret to his techniques. It wasn't as annoying as an Uchiha trying to pry his beloved techniques from him (not that a Uchiha would be able to, or so the Bijuu thought) but it was still bothersome. Especially when, on that day, he revealed that...magnetic technique.

Iron sand.

How insulting.

But...It was a powerful technique. It was, after all, crafted in his image.

Even though at the moment Shukaku found himself more intent on figuring out just how that Akasuna brat was able to use the Third's technique, he knew its powers, and he still had survival to worry about. More like the survival of the little teen still engulfed in a pocket of air within his bulk (which felt rather...unique, if not awkward) like an infant in the womb. Pah.

The metal would pierce him completely. Depending on the extent, the puppeteer could end up unwittingly killing his host.

And his host was curled up within the shifting earthflesh around him, his legs pulled up to his chest, his mind sleeping.

Somewhere within Shukaku's chest cavity, between the beast's shoulder blades.

Inhaling deeply, the creature gathered up some of its own sand in his throat.

Sand against sand indeed. He sharpened it, molded it, and made the first strike.

In a sweeping exhale, he sent nearly twenty shards of pointed earth hurtling towards the puppet with the face that so angered him.

Sasori jerked the puppet in a multitude of directions, twisting and shifting and lurching to avoid what he could of the spears of earth shot from below. Eleven of them he managed to escape, and three more he knocked away with his own shields of pseudo-sand. The rest made contact with varying degrees of damage – one merely grazed the cloak, ripping it, while another tore away one of the shoulders as well as the arm attached to it. Fortunately, it wasn't the arm containing the grand majority of his tricks and treats.

Still, he reeled it in with a tug before it had a chance to properly fall away, taking it into the many hands of his thousand-armed puppet. It would be simple enough to repair and reattach later if he managed to not loose it.

Now it was time to see if the beast could feel.

Fine filaments clumped together to form oversized needles, spiraling cones, narrow pyramids, and other obscure, nameless figures. Some of the shapes crushed against each other to create larger, more irregular forms. Spiked arrows and segmented, razor-edged blocks. Metal still issued from between his teeth, generating yet more, each of them different. The only thing that they all had in common was that the winding, twisting, sharp points of all of them were directed at Shukaku.

It was simple enough to find out where the Fifth Kazekage was hidden within the sand-crafted body by following the threads of his chakra strings. As such, it was a basic task to avoid hitting him.

_Is there such a thing as pain in that false body?_

Wondering, curious, Sasori sent down a nightmare of tainted iron rain on the creature below.

Rain.

Like a hail of weapons that Shukaku, in his bulk, would have no chance of dodging. And he knew it.

It wasn't enough to blacken the sky, but they filled the air, whistling in their speed, ready to rend right through his flesh.

..._shit_.

The first came spectacularly through Shukaku's forehead, and went on going, exiting with an explosion of muddy sand out the other side. In that moment, the bijuu was blinded, unable to even lift his arms against the wave of weapons. But he didn't want to use his arms...not yet. He needed them in working condition if he was going to—

Too late. One arrowhead ripped through his shoulder, sending a mass of earth tumbling down. His right arm was now a useless soggy mass in the swamp created by his own weight.

Jaws parted, and the creature let loose a scream in tones that might cause human ears to throb in a startling agony.

The tree leaves quivered with the energy of it. The cry didn't even cut off as one came through his lower jaw and exited through his back, about two meters below where his container was tucked away.

When the greater numbers of the weapons hit, that was when the screech stopped.

His form was shredded, holes punched through just about everywhere. His tail had nearly been halved. Every little bit of him was in agony, except, of course, for the tiny little patch that held Gaara.

Of course Sasori knew where the brat was the whole time! _God damn it!_

It was as if the clay structure was melting, too wet to hold its own form, pocketed with sloppy holes. As Shukaku diverted his strength to replenish himself, water soaked up his legs, sinking him lower to the earth.

But...but...He would! He would replenish. The extra chakra gushing out was putting a definite strain on his container, but he would _tear that puppet to pieces_!

The left arm swung, suddenly, a several ton weight moving way too fast for its own good. Like a horse's tail towards the fly, Shukaku swung his arm at both of the puppets, as his head pieced itself back together.

Sasori flung back his arms, then yanked them forward again, and the puppet he hid inside of launched itself out of the path of the disembodied limb. Barely. He could feel the blast of displaced air as it passed him, pushing him further back with the force of the artificial wind, his many arms fluttering like ribbons and scraps of cloth tearing. One hand that was a moment too slow brushed against the side of it, and the whole thing all the way up to his shoulder – as well as three others – was ripped away.

Himself he could get out of the way in time – the Third was not so fortunate.

In an explosion of sand and wood and metal, his prize puppet was shattered by the sheer size and momentum of the demon's attack. A cloud of poison burst from the mangled body, escaping from one of the canisters that had cracked open on impact, and fragments of weapons and debris fell in a mess of glinting steel and drifting fabric. Below, the rising tendrils of iron froze in place, then collapsed like the useless bits and pieces of ground-up weaponry they were.

_Shit._

Bad. Very very bad.

The Kazekage had more or less been his trump card.

_Ah._..if only his senses weren't so dulled as his head was reforming, otherwise he really would have enjoyed the feeling that came as he shattered the Third's image. All the spines, some in him, some around him lost their form, crumbling into a mass of black grit.

Whatever was controlling the techniques had gone down with the puppet? It seemed that way.

How wonderful. The shards of the mechanism...quite a sight to see.

"**Tablesss'ave turned, puppeteer.**" He was slurring again, as his jaw pieced itself back together. All over his body, the holes were pinching themselves closed. Inside, Gaara stirred, his body overheating from all the chakra escaping him. Ugh. Returning to his container would be a hassle for the both of them if the kid woke up.

His right arm gathered form, and slowly reattached itself. With his left, he reached out, trying to pluck the remaining puppet out of the air. Wooden pieces from the Third still were embedded in his flesh.

Cursing under his breath, Sasori fled higher into the sky, hopefully out of reach of the hulking mass of sand below.

_Too slow._

Indeed. It was huge, but by no means fast in relative comparison; at least, not with his arms attached. Sasori had been correct when he had judged one of his few advantages to be speed and agility in this battle – as long as there wasn't anything being launched into the air, he was fine.

But that was the only thing about the situation that was 'fine'.

The Third was most likely broken beyond repair – all of his human puppets had a particular core where the majority of their chakra was stored, and if it was damaged too severely, the abilities of the human were more or less gone. It wasn't solidly defined, like the heart canister in his chest, but it was there. Now, he had only himself and a hundred puppets whose bodies would doubtless prove too fragile for the one he fought. The numbers wouldn't help in this case, he knew already.

_But there can be no harm in trying._

Sasori reached into his cloak, searching for the scroll that contained his other significant summoning, the one that might save him this time. But when his fingers met nothing but cloth, he remembered something with sudden, aching clarity...he brought with him only two scrolls on this mission, expecting not to need anything more. Both of them had already been used.

Brown eyes slipped shut, his brows coming together.

_Damnit._

The tables had indeed turned, and not to his benefit.

The demon below would've frowned if it had had eyebrows.

Ugh. Out of his reach. The pointed fingers, still outstretched, lowered in an almost dejected manner. Looked like he wouldn't be able to pull the last puppet into his jaws for a very crunchy finish.

Ooh. Better watch the drool with those kinds of thoughts.

It seemed all that was left to do was force Sasori out of the skies.

There was still some iron left in his belly to make a number of good projectiles. Let's see how the other enjoyed being held at the mercy of the Third's old legacy.

The metal scraps circulated up to the back of his throat where they were coated with sand and the remainder of poison in his system. And once more the creature tilted his head back, drawing in bouts of wind through his parted mouth. And once more he regurgitated projectiles. These, however, had a lot greater piercing power.

_Oh, no._

Metal, sand, poison – all clumping together and lancing through the air in unforgiving, discolored darts. Slicing through the space between them, closing the gap at a speed he hadn't anticipated, towards a wooden body that he couldn't possibly move quickly enough to avoid them. Not this time. Because Shukaku had decided to use his own weapons against him, and in a way that he couldn't escape. This puppet was – though slender and smaller than most of his others – too bulky. Too slow. Painfully too slow.

_No choice._

There was a series of sharp snaps as hinges broke, and the torso of the many armed marionette cracked open. The whole body went limp, beginning its slow fall even as Sasori used it to propel himself out of the way. Behind and below him, as he leapt into the open and unforgiving air, Shukaku's weapon pierced the puppet, driving through the middle of its chest and tearing his creation into two ragged halves. A bare moment ago, it would have sliced him in two.

There was about half a second of relief.

The time that followed was filled by a less pleasant realization:

_I am very, very high up, and I have no wings._

Briefly, he seemed to be suspended in the air, unmoving. Floating in space. Then, gravity laid omnipotent hands upon his shoulders and pushed him down towards the earth, down towards the demon that waited below. Sheathed in the expansive lengths of his cloak, he was little more than a black-and-red smudge against the blue, plummeting toward the ground in a fashion that seemed slow and fast at the same time.

One hand reached above him for the sky he was so rapidly leaving behind, but then the world became a blurred confusion of color as he tumbled, and he was no longer sure what was up and what was down. All he could do was close his eyes, tucking his arms against his chest and hoping that his heart canister would break on impact, and that he wouldn't have to deal with the humiliation of losing a battle that _should_ have been so, so _easy_...

_I guess I shouldn't have underestimated the enemy._

Beneath him, the demon was far more jubilant.

_**Hahahah! Like a nut from its shell!**_

He beast gave a low snarl in a deep throated triumph. Victory was his, just as he had anticipated. A puppeteer could not defeat him. Not at least – he admitted, grudgingly remembering Chiyo again – with their puppets.

The long fall was quite the suspenseful event. Shukaku was tempted to just watch the man with his fluttering cloak hit the ground. But gravity had killed too many over the years, and this was one finish that belonged to him and only him.

Thus the Bijuu casually extended one arm in the middle of the path of Sasori's fall.

The Akasuna would land directly in his palm, and he would be able to finally get his wish of being able to crush the other in his jaws. Mmm.

Such was his excitement, Shukaku failed to initially notice the boy inside his flesh...stirring.

For a time, it seemed Sasori would fall forever. The air rushed past his ears, howling and screaming and clutching at his clothes. The graceless tumble from above confused his eyes and his mind, and it was impossible for him to tell, at this point, whether he was falling to the earth or the sky. All he knew was the hideous, keening voice of the wind.

Nothing hindered his decent, and – almost – he expected his death to be somewhat merciful, if embarrassing. Bits and pieces of himself shattering and scattering on impact, while his heart popped like a grape when it hit the ground.

But, no. He was not nearly so fortunate.

When his back hit something wide and flat and oddly soft, Sasori's first thought was, _'when did the mud get dry and how did it do it so quickly?'_ But when he opened his eyes, and found them either level or above quite a few of the treetops, he froze, becoming painfully aware that the substance that had broken his fall was _not_ mud. It was sand.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Above him, below him, _around_ him – the massive bulk of the bijuu.

The eyes of the young body he wore grew wide, his lips parting in a mixture of awe and fear. The monster was even bigger from this perspective than it had been from above, and he was _in its hand._ It could crush him between its claws, suffocate him under a mass of sand, pop him into its mouth and bite down...he was at its mercy. Though perhaps mercy wasn't the correct word choice, because he knew the creature had none of _that_.

Small hands curled into fists, his eyes and mouth closing while his body grew rigid.

_I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing my thoughts in my face as I die, Shukaku._

The thing in the demon's hand was...remarkably small. Hardly older then a teenager. It didn't much feel like a human at all.

After all, there was something remarkably primal in the fear his prey was showing. Wide eyed, staring up as his captor. That alone virtually provoked the creature, even though his instincts had not been aroused by any whiff of blood. There was something shameful in that, the lack of blood in the air. Puppets break and leave nothing but wood and poison. How dull.

Sasori's skin was...it looked flawless. How gleeful it would be to permanently mar it.

The sand that held the puppeteer up shifted, becoming more pliable. His limbs would sink into it, and then the sand would harden, keeping him in place for the finishing blow.

But the form of the Bijuu abruptly shuddered, waves from some unknown origin reverberating throughout it. Shukaku snapped alert. What was—?

No.

Too early.

Gaara could not be trying to reawaken.

But another, even more violent wave traveled from the beat's torso and stretched out to its limbs, causing a large amount of sand to loosen. Gushes of the grains fell into the artificial swamp below.

_**Go back to sleep, brat.**_

Beneath the puppeteer, the already soft cushion of sand became softer, almost spongy. Though he had silently ordered himself not to, he opened his eyes as he felt himself begin to tip to the side. Both hands flattened themselves onto the uneven surface. But even as he spread his fingers wide in an attempt to keep his balance, he could feel himself begin to sink down into the malleable palm of the bijuu. Perhaps it _did _mean to suffocate him.

What little sureness of ground he had deteriorated when the entirety of the colossal body around him trembled. His elbows buckled, and he fell over onto the yielding mass. Struggling to escape it, his hands sinking uselessly down as he tried to push himself up, he was knocked down yet again by a second, larger convulsion. From his peripheral he could see sand cascading to the ground, falling away from the creature, blurring its shape. Then, he was too consumed in his effort to free himself from the devouring sand to pay much mind to anything else.

_What's going on?_

Who honestly knew? All that mattered was getting _out_ of this, possibly finding some way to reach the ground. If he was on the ground, then maybe – just maybe – he would have a chance at getting out of this alive and in one piece. Arms and legs all attached, thank you very mu—

It wasn't to be so.

In his frustration, knowing that his time was coming to a close, the demon brought his free hand to Sasori's arm, clutched it, and yanked.

Sasori flinched as something wrapped around his arm and pulled. Very, very hard.

The powerful tug yanked him up, and for a moment only his feet were hidden from view by the roiling grit. Not for long, though. With a hollow snap and a tearing of cloth, his arm popped easily out of its socket, and he fell back onto the pillow of sand on his knees and one hand. It hadn't hurt – there was not pain for this body. One of the many advantages of being inhuman, really. Though he would've preferred having his limb to not.

Ah. A little twist and a snap—but Shukaku was immediately both shocked and disappointed to see that the arm he had detached was a fake one. Puppeteers were tricky in that manner. How aggravating.

Especially since the clock had finally struck on his little escapade.

Gaara must have thought Sasori to be already dead. The brat was probably planning on waking up to prevent Shukaku from taking his just revenge on whatever was left of the village of Suna.

_**Tch.**_

_**Stupid, stupid boy.**_

Thoughtlessly, the beast flung the twig of a wooden arm away, and it sailed several hundred meters and landed somewhere in the trees.

"**It's not over Akasuna—**" Shukaku squealed, before his voice distorted into some lower tones as his face began melting into formless sand.

Sasori was dropped, the whole monster losing shape and becoming some heaping pile of golden dirt. The puppeteer only had about forty five meters to fall, though.

Its arms fell. Its tail burst into dust. The blue markings on its body were buried and engulfed. The swamp was nearly drowned in the mountain of sand.

**xXxXx**

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara, Shukaku**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	5. Turning Tables

Sasori felt the sand completely give way, and once again he was falling, his cloak fluttering and fingers of wind combing through his red hair. This time, he didn't stop until he hit the ground. Though, like before, sand broke his fall, puffing out around him as he met it with a muted _whumph_. Fortunately for him, the majority of the bijuu's collapsing body was a bit farther off, and he wasn't completely buried by it.

A few of his limbs were shaken loose, and his knee joint was a bit mussed, but a little twisting and tugging solved it all. He stood somewhat shakily and dusted himself off with the one hand he had. A tentative step was followed by a stumble, his footing questionable on the almost slippery surface, and he flung his arm out for balance. It didn't help much, and he toppled forward anyway.

_I'm so tired of doing face plants in dirt._

With an irritated groan, he struggled again to his feet. This time, it was with yet more care that he navigated his way over the newly-created dunes in the midst of the River Country.

Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes sought the form of the Jinchuuriki.

The arm he had lost was the one that had the strings attached to it, and – unfortunately – he no longer knew where the Kazekage was. Not exactly an advantageous position to be in.

Particularly not when, somewhere beneath the sand, Gaara began to stir.

Sleep was...not the pleasant thing he imagined. After all, it had been years since he had surrendered his mind to unconsciousness. He had forgotten the sensation.

And it felt unpleasant. The creature had been feeding off of him.

Some distance away from the shaken puppeteer, the sand shuddered.

It took some effort to rise, pushing the sand off his back and rising up for air. Gaara's skin was heated, and blotched red from the horrid chakra that had rapidly escaped his body.

No. Not just that. It was blotched from the chakra withdrawing back into him.

It stung ferociously as he could feel the monster's presence squirm its way into his frame from all sides.

His head throbbed, and he stumbled back into a kneel on the crest of the dune.

Ugh. His body didn't want to respond, the demon was screaming complaints and-

Sasori.

Sasori was still here.

He...how?

The Suna child blinked several times, gazing blankly over the puppeteer who still stood.

_All that fury, demon, and you couldn't even do away with him._

Stumbling again, slipping down onto one knee with his hand behind him, Sasori sought some kind of _solidity_ in the sand. It was almost like water in the ease with which it flowed out from under him. For a moment he considered the fact that the boy might be manipulating it – then he pushed it aside. First off, he would probably want to do more than _trip_ him. Not only that, but the redhead wasn't anywhere to be seen. Just smooth, undisturbed sand on all sides. Not there, or there, or there, or-

There.

Freezing where he stood in all of his one-armed glory, his eyes fixed on the young body that was extracting itself from the brand new patch of desert, Sasori felt his shock and creeping, sudden fear play over his face. The one enemy he couldn't kill was staring at him, holding him in the thrall of pale turquoise eyes rimmed in black, the kanji on his forehead stark against pale skin. And all the Akatsuki member could do was stare back, puppet-less and lacking a limb, unsure whether the ground would even hold him where he stepped.

Gaara, he knew, would have no such difficulties. If he wanted to go somewhere he could just _float_ his way over. After all, he controlled the ground at this point, and—

_Oh, no._

_He controls the ground._

There was a sick, twisting feeling where his stomach used to be, and Sasori stumbled backwards. Away from the boy. Perhaps he would be dazed enough not to notice his foe was escaping, or perhaps he would be dazed enough not to remember how to stop it. The poison might still be having a _little_ effect, and he _had_ just been controlled by the bijuu...

Another tumble on the treacherous earth, and he fell onto his back.

In his mind, Sasori declared – not for the first time – an everlasting hatred of Suna and their accursed deserts.

_Why is he out of his puppet?_

Gaara tried to sift through his thoughts, trying to recall why Sasori would do such a thing.

And once again he found himself drained of aggression when he looked at Sasori.

It was just hard to get a killer intent when you looked at him.

Gaara lacked the energy to try at the moment.

Instead, blankly, he stretched out his arms, and flopped face first down on the sand below him. His body was too heated. His temperature was skyrocketing and he had nothing to do but wait it out.

In a display of a warning to Sasori, though, the sand around the boy rose up, forming tendril like barriers around the Kazekage's fallen form.

"Don't approach me." Came the demon container's muffled voice.

At least he could fight, if need be. That was an utter relief.

_**You need to kill him, brat.**_

_Clean up after you? I'm not going to bother, Tanuki._

_**If you won't kill him, at least take him hostage. After all, he is an Akatsuki.**_

...Gaara hadn't considered that.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sasori muttered back in his low, velvety voice, sitting up – a difficult endeavor with one arm. Leaning forward, he managed to lurch to his knees. From there, it was another trying task to properly stand. He managed it. Barely.

_In fact, I think I'll leave you well alone and be on my way._

Slipping and sliding and making an overall fool of himself, he clambered clumsily over the sand, skidding down a small incline and landing on his rear. Happily leaving Gaara behind. Soon the redhead would be back to his fully-functioning, angry self, and then he would be able to bounce back to his lovely little village and warn them that kidnappers with swirly red clouds on their clothes were after him. He could up their defenses, make all the necessary preparations, leave no openings for infiltration...

Pain would be mad. Very, very mad.

_Pain can go fuck himself for all I care – I'm not hanging around to be killed._

_Bravo, well said._

A little ways off, Gaara focused his mind on his chest and the air that filled it.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

The heat that had swallowed him subsided, slowly, as he submitted himself into reabsorbing the chakra all in the area around him. If he had his way, Shukaku wouldn't be able to return...just stuck as morphless energy looking for a host. But Gaara wouldn't have his way. Not today, anyways.

The sand pile seemed to be shrinking. The lighter material was being soaked up and absorbed by the swamp. By the time nature took its course, there would be nothing left but particularly sandy soil.

How comforting...

But he had a use for the sand. One more use, before the minerals could return to their resting places.

_Sasori. I am not finished._

In a whiplash of a gesture, the boy suddenly jerked his hand up, and three clawed arms rose up from the dune, streaking towards the puppeteer.

Never in his life did Sasori think that the sound of moving sand would terrify him.

A glance was all the incentive he needed to lurch ungracefully to his feet, scrambling for footing, skidding and falling and doing it all over again in an effort to get away, far away, before those claws of sand could reach him. Desperately, he tried to reach out for his puppets, begging them to come at the jerk of his hand and the clutching of his fingers. They didn't. They were gone, demolished, destroyed. If anything had responded to his call, it would've been splinters and useless fragments.

Unlike before, it seemed that now _he _was the slow one.

The sand arms followed his every movement, looping over each other like surreal flying serpents.

One lurched at his heels, but missed, and with a hiss stirred up a cloud of grit.

With the grass in plain sight, solid ground only a short sprint away, Sasori fell yet again. And while he struggled to his knees, trying and failing to get his feet under him, he realized with cold clarity that he was at the mercy of the demon vessel. That fall had been his last. There was no more time to run – not that there ever had been, but now it was truly, hopelessly over.

When he fell, the claws merged seamlessly into one, larger shape. With an expectedly firm motion, the trunk-like fingers closed around Sasori's torso and lifted him off the ground.

But there was no immediate killing strike made. No. Rather, he was lifted and dragged over to where Gaara stood at the peak of the dune. Regarding Sasori with his teal eyes, the boy began walking over the sand. Almost as if to mock the other, he walked over it as if he were strolling on flat pavement.

His sandals sank into the muddy grass at the edge of the patch of desert.

With Sasori being carried along—Gaara acting as if nothing had happened (regardless of how ragged he looked, his skin still blotched)—the Kazekage began walking in the vague direction of Suna.

Sasori had flinched as that paw of sand closed around him, his fingers clenching and his back stiffening. He'd expected the thought that ran through his head – _my art should've been everlasting_ – to be his last. Imagine his shock and confusion when he was merely lifted, towed over the sand and right back to Gaara, the boy with eyes that were so unreadably blank and a face that was so blankly unreadable. The Kazekage had stepped lightly over the sand, easily, without the slightest slip or skid. As easily as if he were walking on firm, unmoving ground.

_Why?_

_Why aren't I dead?_

Curious, intrigued. Surely it had nothing to do with _compassion_. Pfft. The mere thought was laughable. After attempting to destroy his village and take him prisoner, Sasori doubted that Gaara would allow him anything kinder than a swift death. So there had to be some kind of point behind his actions, some purpose.

Regarding him silently for a moment, he pondered whether or not to speak.

_Peh. If he hasn't crushed me already he probably isn't going to._

"Why not kill me?" He asked, his voice so flat he might as well have been discussing the weather. "Surely you want to."

Gaara walked on a few paces, loosely tracking the tiny little bits of sand that marked their path through the forest.

But, at the sound of Sasori's voice, he chanced a glance over his shoulder.

"A missing nin is worth more alive." Was his simple response.

Shukaku broke into a slight chuckle, as he was pushed further and further back into the confines of his container's mind.

It was easy enough to act nonchalant. But, Gaara was still strung up. If the Akatsuki was lying in wait for him to lower his guard, the boy was walking right into his façade. But Sasori didn't seem to truly have any weapons remaining.

Would he even have enough energy to return to Suna?

It would take about a day. A day of walking...

In a complete gesture of calm, the boy reached back into the satchel he still miraculously had and pulled out another bread loaf.

He should have brought something with more calories. Like a soldier pill. Did he bring one of those?

Sasori pondered it.

Ah. So he was either to be sold or used. More likely used, because missing nins were usually only sold to the village they had left behind, and the Kazekage couldn't exactly sell his new prize to himself. Either way, though, it seemed that he had been taken captive, and was now at the mercy of a less-than-stable young man who had more than enough reason to want him dead.

_Captive._

A sour taste in his mouth made him crinkle his nose, and his brows furrowed.

Really, few situations could've been more embarrassing. This was a _boy_. Admittedly, a boy with the power of the desert at his back, a history of bloodshed and murder on his shoulder, and an air of cool-headedness that was strangely adult...but still a boy. Nothing more.

_That bastard Hidan is going to laugh his ritualistic ass off at me, no doubt._

Sasori tucked his knees up to his chest in his snug cage of sand, wrapping his arm around them. Noticing, after a brief period of forgetfulness, that he still was lacking a limb.

"I don't suppose you're going to let me go get my arm, are you?" The question was empty, and he knew it – even his _tone_ knew it. There was less than little chance that he would be permitted to find what Shukaku had torn away. True, he could always make himself a new arm, but that one...that one he'd made out of his true body. He'd like to get it back if it was possible. Even if it was an empty request, it was one he'd make just for the sake of asking.

"You're missing your _arm_?" Gaara had to lower his bread for that line.

How odd. He hadn't noticed.

He looked back over his shoulder, eyelids slightly lifted in his morbid curiosity.

Sasori didn't seem to be bleeding though. If someone got their arm ripped off, they should be bleeding a lot...

Oh. Maybe Sasori was referring to a mechanical arm.

"Can't you get it yourself?" Even though it seemed like sarcasm, Gaara was serious. Kankuro had chakra strings always attached to his puppets. Whenever they were broken he could always gather them back together.

Wait...that wasn't a good thing.

If Sasori had chakra strings like that it meant...

_Unobservant child._

_Did you not pause to wonder why I had so much trouble keeping my balance? Getting up when I fell?_

"If I could, I wouldn't have asked you." Sasori spat, suddenly bitter. Did the boy know nothing of the ways of puppets and their masters? Clearly not, despite his brother having taken up the fine art. With his old creations, no less.

In a strange way, it had been pleasing to see his some of his first works among the equipment of the paint-faced Jounin. Lined up against a wall, clean and oiled and prepared for use. Perhaps containing capsules of poisoned smoke and tainted blades, as they had when they were first made.

_The legacy of Sasori of the Red Sand lives on_, he had thought with a small smile when he saw them.

Heaving a small sigh, he gave a grudging mutter.

"The strings I attach to _myself_ don't reach as far as your damn demon threw it." Almost pouting, Sasori looked away. "Otherwise I would. Assuming it didn't break into a million little pieces when it landed wherever it did, like the rest of my work. I can't exactly retrieve a handful of splinters, now, can I?" His tone was cynical and wry, and when he looked back at Gaara his eyes were shadowed with the injury his own words did to his pride. Admitting his helplessness was the closest he'd ever come to physically hurting in quite a long while, as he could feel the dull ache of resentment in his teeth and his head and his chest.

_You're safe from me now, damn you._

Mmmf. It made sense that he couldn't get it himself. Missing nin such as Sasori wouldn't ask permission for something as trivial as that, would they? Even if, by the sound of Sasori's voice, the other seemed to be polite.

"I'm not going to release you and I don't know where your arm is."

Considering he'd been in a semi-conscious state during his possession, he didn't remember much at all of the fight between demon and puppeteer. The first minute or so was a blur, but after that he recalled nothing. So in other words, tough luck, Sasori.

And with that, Gaara resumed his task of consuming the loaf of bread he had brought.

This had been...an exceptional order of events, hadn't it? He had been captured, poisoned, dragged off to river country, had allowed his demon to take over, and was now heading back home with his captor in tow.

Suna. A flutter of the unease he had felt before returned. What had happened to it? No one seemed willing to tell him. Well, at least, neither of the two sentient beings around and within him. The idea that medics had to be involved really worried him. And angered him. Hadn't he procured a promise from Sasori that no one would be harmed in the village?

Sasori cast a scowl at the back of the boy's bread-eating head. Crossing his legs and setting his elbow on his knee, he rested his chin in his palm in the very image of irritated boredom, the almost-pout back on his lips. His fingers tapped a silent rhythm on his cheek. In the trees that they passed, he sought any sign of an arm or a leg or a head, hoping that one of his puppets might have landed closer and in better repair than he suspected they had.

No such luck.

So his thoughts turned to their destination. More importantly, to the people who would take interest in their Kazekage's latest find. The council, most likely. Village governments always seemed to take some degree of delight in finding things that have gone missing. Another person who might show her face once she received word of his return would be-

_Grandma Chiyo._

Sasori closed his eyes, his scowl deepening.

_How _dare _she interfere with my work?_

_How _DARE _she?_

"Meddling, bitching hag..." Muttering under his breath, he looked back at the trees, his slow anger hot in his chest. She could've done him a favor by dying; she was certainly old enough. But no. She was one of the few who had quite nearly achieved immortality through pure stubbornness.

_False immortality._

_Of the two of us, Grandma, I'm the only one who can truly live forever._

The bread was consumed without thought in a matter of minutes. Gaara was a conservative eater. Mainly because his brother wasn't and Temari always scolded him for it.

The birds seemed to be returning to their roosts all overhead, having been frightened out of the area by the demon's presence. Mankind was still overpowered by nature on this continent, held in a balance that had remained for hundreds of years. Shukaku's actions would be covered up. Sasori's arm, wherever it was, would be decomposed eventually and used as fertilizer by the trees.

But...nature was silently different in the desert. Whatever was left behind was swallowed.

And Gaara was eager to return there. Even though River country was close, the air was much too humid for his preference. Moisture, after all, was typically only felt in the two week long rainy season in Suna.

And, once again, he had a responsibility to return to.

At Sasori's mutter, his became slightly more alert.

"Are you referring to someone I know?" he asked, blandly curious. He had heard Kankuro call someone something like that once.

Sasori looked at the Jinchuuriki sharply, pulled by from his thoughts by the question. Truly he hadn't expected his soft-voiced mumblings to be heard, let alone answered – the boy had appeared too involved in his loaf to notice anything else. Perhaps his sense of hearing bordered on superhuman, like the rest of him seemed to.

Lifting his chin from his hand so he could speak more clearly, "I might be, if you know Grandma Chiyo. She's one of the village elders by now, no doubt. Probably still hangs around with Great Uncle Ebizou. Assuming he's alive, of course." His satin voice was pitched with absent wondering, and his lidded eyes drifted again to the surrounding trees, this time not in search of puppets. All he looked for in the surrounding forest was a distraction.

Uncle had never really been interested in his nephew, but he and Grandma were nearly inseparable. It wasn't often that he saw her alone, and when she was, it was either because she had duties to attend to or wanted to spend a little quality time with her grandson. More often than not, it was the former of the two. Because of it, he had spent quite a lot of time on his own when he was a child. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he had developed such a love for puppets – there was the natural talent he'd had with them, and then there was the comforting sight of others with eyes and mouths and hands, the delightful feeling of them coming to hold him when he reached out to them. They never said anything, and their faces were always as still and expressionless as stone, but they had a certain degree of life to them. In their own, mechanical way, they had loved him, surely...

_Loving is for the living._

_The main virtue of puppets is their inability to feel._

When he had decided that, the bodies that had previously been people became works of art.

Art everlasting.

How many people could do that?

While Sasori drifted, Gaara considered the names.

Chiyo. Ebizou. He recognized them. Two elders who had chosen to separate themselves from the village. They apparently preferred a quiet retirement to dabbling in politics, unlike most their age.

Two other Akasuna members, then?

"If Chiyo is your grandmother, why do you dislike her?"

Gaara, for most of his life, had not been able to understand family bonds. After all, everyone related to him either hated or feared him. And he had hated them in return. Not specifically because they were related. He had a uniquely indiscriminating hatred then. But he had still felt no bond between them. But, eventually, after his battle with Uzumaki Naruto, he began to develop some affection towards them. As they had been weakly attempting for so long.

But the thing was, even if he poorly understood the bonds between family members, he thought that everyone else did. That everyone else had affection for their family members.

Glancing at Gaara, his mouth curled into a forced smile, his eyes hard. "She once lied to me about something she shouldn't have, when I was young. Something important."

_Indeed she did. Made me believe for quite some time that they weren't _dead_, they were just on a very, very long mission and they wouldn't be back for a while. But they _would _be back._

_When was it that I stopped hoping, Grandma?_

_Did I make those puppets of them because I couldn't wait for them to come back, or because I knew they were gone?_

"I never really forgave her for it. Now she's interfering with my work, like she always did when I still lived in Suna. Only then, it was usually just tinkering with my puppets and distracting me with her precious little 'outings'. Now-" He growled, scowling. His hand slipped down to rest on his knee, curling into a tight fist. "The old bag doesn't know when to leave me alone and just _die_." With a flippant, dismissive gesture, "I'll be glad to be rid of her when her damn heart stops beating."

Gaara listened in silence.

Lied, huh?

When you are young, you believe a lot of things you shouldn't.

But back then, there is only truth. And perhaps a bit of pretend as well.

Giving a brisk sigh, Gaara did not respond to Sasori's answer. His 'captive' seemed to be just stirring himself up. Any attempt at communication would - as he suspected it currently was - just serve to agitate Sasori further.

Not that it mattered if the older shinobi got angry. But Gaara had not the tolerance to deal with some scathingly irritated tagalong.

What would happen to Sasori when he returned to Suna, anyways? Gaara had heard the 'horror' stories of Hunter-nin, how the bodies had to be processed and disposed of. Sasori...probably wouldn't be imprisoned. He was too dangerous. So he'd be processed them? Gaara was not concerned for the other's final outcome, but it was something to wonder about nonetheless.

Despite the fact he seemed to be talking to himself at this point, Sasori wasn't about to be silent just because the Jinchuuriki was. No.

"Though I suppose she deserves a little bit of respect. There aren't many medical ninjas I've heard of that can make an antidote to my poison. To think that she managed to make so much in so little time..." A shrug. "Well, she _is_ my relative, and she knows me better than most...She knows _puppets_ better than most."

Of course she did. She taught him how to use his first few, and once he was better, she taught him more. Everything she knew about the art. And when she had given him all of the knowledge she had, he sought out more on his own. It was how he had come to be what he was: a master of marionettes.

More directly at Gaara, he added, "Be sure to congratulate her for me on a job well done when we get back, Kazekage. You owe it to her anyway."

Ah. Poor, poor Gaara. Once again faced with something subtle that took him an oh-so-embarrassing amount of time to chew over and draw a conclusion from.

Chiyo. Creating an antidote for Sasori's poison.

Shukaku's odd remark about how the medic nin would take care of things.

How long Sasori was in Suna.

_His poison._

Electric brainwaves finally concocted a conclusion.

The boy stopped in his path, and for the first time so far, completely turned around to face Sasori. Gaara had a mixed expression on his face, but an actual expression. There was some faint dread in his eyes, but some rising violence that threatened to break apart the apathy that came from seeing Sasori's 'true form'.

And yet Gaara said nothing, but stood and stared, as if demanding a concrete explanation from his captive.

No. Not an explanation.

A confession.

Sasori blinked as the trees he had been watching came to a halt, wondering why the scenery had stopped moving. Why _he_ had stopped moving. Surely the boy didn't intend to rest after so little time. So why-?

Then the Kazekage turned around, and his gaze was drawn to those eyes that were so pale, the face that they belonged to. There was no question in his expression, but the hint of fear and impending violence was enough for the puppet master to realize, with bemusement and a drop of amusement, that the young man _still_ did not know what had happened in Sunagakure. Didn't know of the cloud that had polluted the village, nor of the medicines his grandmother had created to null its effects.

"Don't you remember?" Sasori arched a fine brow almost mockingly, genuinely confused but not sure whether or not to laugh. "I told you that if you came quietly, nothing would happen to your precious little people. But for some reason you seemed to think that once Suna was out of sight, it was also out of reach." He shook his head, clicking his tongue as one might click their tongue at a child who didn't believe them when they said that broken glass – however pretty it looked – could give them nasty little ouchies. "Not even close, Kazekage. I wouldn't have released those gasses over the village if you had behaved, but..." He shrugged. "Some just don't listen, no matter how many times you warn them."

With a sigh, he tucked his fist beneath his chin and put his elbow back on his knee, gazing blandly at the youth. "Lucky for you Grandma Chiyo was around, hm? Otherwise your people would've been dead in the space of three days...If they were healthy, that is. The weak ones would probably only last two days, and the very old and very young would've been quite fortunate to survive the first twenty-four hours."

Silence. A muffled silence as Gaara's fear fell away into shocked realization. That shifted into...something choked. Something unspeakable.

I should have allowed Shukaku to wipe him from existence.

_Lo and behold, dear Gaara. __It_ was _all__ your fault._

There was...he couldn't say anything. Nothing could come to him. No reply to Sasori. No threat, no curse, not even a simple shake of his head. Suna had been poisoned by the gases that had poisoned him? Everyone would be paralyzed. No one would be able to move, no one to call for aid. All because of him. He took a chance. He brought this upon his village. He failed to protect anyone except himself. Sunagakure could be dead because of him.

A tiny bit of him protested: _this Chiyo has an antidote. She can save them._

It doesn't matter if she saved them or not. He had endangered his village. He shouldn't have even let Sasori enter in the first place. All his fault. _All his damned fault._

It was only that he saw the Missing nin as the tiniest chance of reconciliation with his village that he didn't kill the other on the spot. Didn't crush him into something unrecognizable.

Turn around, Gaara. Stare at him any longer and you will surely strike him down.

There wasn't anything left to do but to keep walking, was there?

His feet moved. His body turned. He began walking again.

**xXxXx**

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	6. Dealings

Suna was active; he could sense that even as he approached. What disturbed him more was the lack of guards at the great gape in the stone wall around Suna. There was only one, a higher Jounin he recognized. He suspected this was to still have a concentration of power guarding the wall while they made up for lack of man power.

And there was something quite...unruly in the air. The poison, from before?

He came closer, and the guard spotted him. The relief he saw on the man's face nearly prevented Gaara from moving. It almost made him want to retreat.

But the Jounin didn't leave him much ability to retreat, for in his joy he broke a rule and left his post.

"Kazekage-sama!" He exclaimed, "You've returned! Are you well?"

The red haired boy stared in reply, unable to form a response.

After a stifling silence, he finally spoke, shaking his head.

"I'm fine."

Euphoria clearing a bit to allow the man to see, the Jounin finally noticed Sasori, half floating behind Gaara.

"Who's this?" He asked, looking from captive to captor.

"The man responsible for this." With that blank remark, he signaled the Jounin to follow him and headed to enter the village.

Sasori sat silent in his cage of sand, his gaze wandering over the village that loomed ahead of him, above him, _around_ him. Sunagakure. It felt considerably different entering it this time than it had previously, then as an undetected intruder and now as an announced prisoner. While before the nostalgia had been almost teasing, the familiarity reminiscent, he could presently see nothing but threat in the high stone walls and the village beyond them. Threat and memories he wanted nothing better than to run away from.

As they had traveled in silence, passing over the River Country border and into the Wind, nearing the village with every passing hour, the puppet master's coolly nonchalant attitude had slowly disintegrated. He'd become agitated, his fingers twitching without a puppet to control, his body occasionally giving a small jerk, his teeth kneading his lip. Everywhere he'd looked, he'd looked with an expression wide-eyed paranoia.

The people were going to be very upset when they found out who he was and what he had done.

Very, _very_ upset.

On top of it, the councilmen would no doubt like to extract as much misery and agony from him as they possibly could before killing him. With the Kazekage's permission, of course. Which he had no doubt the Jinchuuriki would gladly give.

How very fortunate he was that his body could feel no pain.

Pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arm around them, he shrugged up his shoulders till the high collar of the cloak all but obscured his face, hopefully protecting him from recognition. His hand clutched tightly at the fabric of his clothing. His back was rigid. Curled up, smaller than he already was, his brown eyes peering up through his hair and flickering over his surroundings, he seemed yet more like the child he appeared to be.

They would do well to remember that he was senior to many of the Kazekage's Jounin.

However much he _didn't_ feel like it right now, returned to the place of his childhood.

The events that occurred in the city Gaara could only guess as he walked down the streets. His eyes scoped around, looking for life, but nearly everything in Suna was abandoned.

He was terrified to find out what had happened. The Kazekage did not want to hear a body count. But he knew he would have to, and he had to face the village.

"Where is everyone?" He asked, finally.

The Jounin behind him was caught up between gazing in a sort of comforted manner at Gaara to ogling Sasori. The puppeteer was slightly before his time; the Jounin couldn't be more than in his mid twenties. His reply was mechanical, thoughtless.

"They're all in the hospital unit and the surrounding buildings that could be used as such."

Lifting a free hand, Gaara commanded him to go back to his post. Grudgingly, the other obeyed.

Now it was just Sasori and Gaara going through the empty streets.

And once more the idea of extracting his revenge from the person behind him floated into the Suna Shinobi's mind, but this time he found it easier to wave off.

"Do you have any of the antidote with you?" the young Kazekage asked without looking back.

"Of course." Sasori scoffed, his voice a façade of confidence. Though, truly, what puppeteer in their right mind wouldn't? If he were to accidentally scratch someone, such as Deidara, a mere 'sorry' wouldn't really cut it. An apology didn't cover three days of agonizing paralysis and a slow, painful death. Antidotes did. That being as it was, antidotes were nearly as plentiful on his person as the poisons. Or, at least, they had been. Some of his stores had gone down with the puppets. Just the same, he still had quite the on-hand supply.

_And it probably works better than that chicken soup Chiyo is putting in their arms, too._

Weak, whatever it was she had concocted. Enough to extend their lives. The poisons weren't nullified, like they were by his, but rather they were fought. Microscopic warfare in every vein. It would be nothing short of a miracle of human immunity if any of them managed to survive the toll such a battle would take on their toxin-weakened bodies. And Chiyo would probably just keep on injecting herself and her fellow medics with whatever uselessness she had brewed until their systems finally broke down.

"Grandma is less proficient than I thought she was." A glance around the village, his brows furrowed. "If her medicines were _truly_ effective, the only places where there would be people would be the restaurants. Though I suppose she did well by keeping them alive as long as she did..."

The boy's hand gave the slightest twitch in response to Sasori's comment. Okay. Strike that. It actually took a fair amount of his will power to quiet his sudden thirst for vengeance. How odd that it took an event like this to reawaken Gaara's long dormant killer intent.

At least the other still had his stores of antidotes. He could comfort himself with that knowledge. 

All of the activity in the village had been concentrated into the area surrounding the medical building. There was life there, at least. Several people were coming and going, carrying items in and out of the buildings in a rush. 

The village was desperate for free hands. They probably had about twenty well enough to walk and around two thousand in need of the medicine.

Once more Gaara hesitated. Would the village even want him around since he was the one who had caused this? 

No. He didn't have time to worry about that. There were lives on the line, regardless of how he felt. 

So he quietly approached, addressed a medic, who abruptly moved to have drag him into the main facility.

Frantic medics, rushing back and forth through the halls with bushels of herbs that Sasori could tell, at a glance, would be as useless against his poison as he had been against Shukaku – for a while they might seem to have a fighting chance at succeeding, but in the end of it, they were overpowered. Useless. Even had he not been familiar with the toxins, he would've been able to say so. Those were not the types of plants to be used in cases such as these.

_They must be getting desperate. After all, I took those things that would be most effective, and with so many people..._

Suna.

Desperate.

Depending on assistance from medical ninjas who would eventually collapse, just like the rest of them.

A smile touched his lips.

Even in the midst of his captivity, there was something satisfying about seeing the village and the people he had grown to hate at such a young age struggle for their lives. Toil for survival.

One of the youths that scrambled past stumbled against a wall, his arms loaded with greenery, his chest heaving and his body shaking. The paralysis was slowly settling back in. An older woman followed orders with glazed eyes, moving mechanically. She was an inch short of brain dead at the moment. Soon her mind would cease to function altogether, and she would lose consciousness. Another – far younger than the others – crumpled with a moan even as he watched. Three rushed to her assistance, all of them appearing not far from collapse themselves. Hours they'd worked and run, stabbing needles hurriedly into their arms and injecting themselves with energy. Their chakra had been depleted by ceaseless healing of themselves and others.

In other words, they were at the end of an already short string.

"I suppose," Sasori murmured softly, pressing closer to the side of his sand-wrought cage that the Kazekage was located on, "You'll want me to help them, won't you?"

Well, naturally. No one knew how to cure a poison better than its maker, and he had everything this dying village needed to return to the land of the living. The materials, the tools...more importantly, the knowledge. As proficient with medicine as Chiyo might be, she couldn't hope to make something effective in the time they had left. Thirty hours of life, if he was being optimistic. A more accurate number might be six less than that. A day. That was assuming those who had inhaled the death-cloud were healthy and in their prime. Those who were sick or old or young...ten hours was a generous estimate. Some were most likely already dead.

Whatever they were doing, Gaara knew he would be useless to them. All he could possibly do in this situation would be to carry things around.

He knew those lying in the medical cots, knew the sweating, feverish medics rushing about. 

This was his village. All this had happened in so little time.

In that moment, his selfishness was able to be buried. Regardless of how the villagers felt about him after this, if they prevailed, he had to aid them. 

And Sasori? He would be the one to do it.

Gaara's regality resurfaced, like a scorpion springing from the sand. He stood upright, chin lifted and eyes bright. His prison for Sasori altered, forcing the other on his feet, but still keeping several tendrils around his limbs.

"You are going to help them." A simple statement of a fact, Gaara treated it. "You will present your antidotes so that the medics can replicate them. You will give all the aid you are physically able to." At the back of his mind, he was aware that the puppeteer had no reason to help the village. What was there to offer, besides a minor extension to his life?

"A few flaws in your plan, Kazekage-_sama_." The respectful suffix was spat without the slightest hint of sincerity. "The most glaring one is the fact that, quite simply, my antidotes _can't_ be replicated. Particularly right now. The concoction is far too complex for your medics to grasp under the best of circumstances. With time as limited as it is, and their minds and bodies already exhausted, how useful can they possibly be? Most of them are barely coherent enough to carry cots."

As if waiting for a cue, there was a clatter of wood against hard flooring as the handles of one of the (sadly empty) sickbeds was dropped. Sasori snorted with cynical amusement and a brief _I-told-you-so_ look at the other. When the young lady at fault stumbled first over an apology and then her own feet, his nose crinkled and his brows furrowed as though he'd smelled something distasteful.

"I'll have you know that a single mistake in this particular mixture can make an antidote nearly as effective a poison as what I taint my puppets with." He continued, pulling his gaze away from the Shinobi as she staggered to her feet. "The ingredients are virulent enough on their own – combined, they can either nullify each other or become deadly. It all depends on the way they are used. Do it wrong, and the death warrants have been signed for who knows how many. Not a chance you're willing to take, I'm sure." A wry smirk.

"Another rather..._limiting_ factor," Shrugging one shoulder, its empty socket made all the more obvious by the movement, he scowled darkly at the one to which he spoke. "Would be the general lack of one arm."

_Not to mention the fact that I have absolutely no inclination to assist you to begin with._

_I'm dead if I don't help and dead if I do. Might as well take as many of you down with me as I possibly can, right?_

_Unless, of course, you make me an offer I can't refuse..._

On the outside Gaara made no indication of any concern to Sasori's valid points, but on the inside he was forced to halt and rethink everything.

_Mmm_.

He had power over the other only in the sense that he could kill him on a whim.

The other still had his will, and Gaara was not particularly charismatic or skilled at any form of coercion.

And his presence as Kazekage was ludicrous at best.

...As much as he would have liked to discard the missing nin or pass him off to some detention facility, Sasori was the one last hope of the village and there was only one last thing he could offer the other.

Without skipping a heart beat, Gaara relaxed his shoulders, and lowered his arm. The sand around the puppeteer remained, though.

"Consider this factor, then. If you manage to undo the damage you have done to this village, you might be able to leave it."

His freedom.

Regardless of the calm, almost superior tone in his voice, Gaara knew he had been forced into the decision. And there was no time to contemplate whether he would actually be able to fulfill such an offer. Maybe if Sasori did agree to it, he'd be inclined to smuggle the other out of the village. But he needed his captor on his side, now.

_Freedom?_

Sasori's scowl faltered. Just barely, but it did. Enough that someone watching carefully would pick up on the loosening of his tightly knit brows, the way the hard line of his mouth softened, the marginal widening of those thickly lashed brown eyes. The irate rigidity of his shoulders slackened. Only a bit, but a bit was plenty.

_Leave Suna? Without consequence to my actions?_

Surely the Kazekage was not so giving...but he saw nothing in the pale teal gaze that hinted at a falsehood, waiting to be revealed when his usefulness had been milked from him. Though he searched for it, probing as deeply as he could into what he could see in the other's eyes. Nothing. Not the smallest taste of betrayal – only an offered trade that would benefit them both. No last minute withdrawal of a promise that had never really been a promise. No lies.

Then again, he had seen no lurking threat when the boy had agreed to leave the village, either.

It was becoming increasingly clear that there was nothing readable about Shukaku's host.

But the inclination to believe the boy – _trust_ the boy – was strong. If only because he wanted to believe he would be able to escape this village with his life and his secrets tucked away in his pocket.

"...I'll need a sterile room and some tools." Sasori murmured, slow and careful with his words. "Preferably glassware. Also, whatever medical syringes they haven't used yet. And-" With a pointed glare. "-a new arm. Assuming you don't want the work to move so slowly that half of your people are dead and gone before I've completed the first batch."

It was a grudging agreement.

Although, admittedly, no actual promise had been made, the entire agreement was there, and based solely on trust. How odd it was, then, that Sasori should not waste time pursuing any guarantee to his freedom, and trust that Gaara would fulfill his promise.

It was...somewhat astonishing. And it made him slightly more inclined to keep up his end of the bargain.

The first part of Sasori's new request he could not do himself. Without addressing the puppeteer directly, he looked around for the most conscious and least busy looking nurse.

He went over to her and requested such a room. It took a minute of wading through 'Kazekage-sama! I'm so glad you are safe!' (it seemed to be the staple reaction for anyone he spoke to) to finally get her to say that there was an unused room down hallway A2, room 501, and that she could bring any supplies needed.

The second item on the request he might be able to.

After sending the medic nin off to get some clean glasses and transport it to the empty room, he returned to Sasori.

"Room 501 down the hallway A2." He repeated, in case the other hadn't heard. "Is there a place in Suna you kept your things? Replacement arms?"

He had volunteered himself to go fetch the arm for no particular reason. But perhaps he just wanted to be away from all the villagers, if even for a moment.

"_My_ things I took with me. Suna's things..."

Sasori thought for a moment, recalling a room where malfunctioning manikins hung from the ceiling like dead bodies, limp and lifeless and never to be used. A table that was covered in arms and legs and fingers and toes, curling wood shavings peppering the smooth surface, tools scattered about. Empty, windowless walls and a cold stone floor. Welcome silence marred only by the soft clicks of joints fitting together. The room where he had discovered puppets. Having walked there every day of his life for years, he knew where it was – or, rather, where it used to be – but he wasn't sure if the Kazekage did.

"Grandma Chiyo will know. If you can, ask her for as many spare puppets as she can manage, too. Extra hands are useful when I can control them like my own."

Most likely the puppets would be inspected before he received them, if he received them at all. There was no chance of them giving him anything he could use as weapon. Only a slight chance of them giving him something he could use as a subordinate. Either way, most of their spares were either faulty or so new they had yet to be endowed with weaponry and poisons, and therefore could not be used effectively in battle. Such things could be put to good work in the mass production of an antidote. Nothing more.

_Am I really going to help them?_

Looking at the medics who skittered past, rushing hither and thither with their useless medicines and drained chakra, part of him scoffed and shook its head, sneering at them as they lived out what would soon be the last of their already short lives. Of course not. He'd sooner _die_ than save these pitiful examples of human life.

Another part of him – perhaps the one that had grown up in this village before his life had gone sour, loving it and its people – watched them and wondered what it would be like to rescue them from impending death. They would not be grateful to him, he knew; he was the cause of their misery. But perhaps there was someone, somewhere, who would murmur a subdued thanks.

The rest of him was nothing but cold, unfeeling logic. Do it and you go free, don't and you die.

But even that cold, unfeeling logic was tainted by a distant hope. A desire to trust the boy whose hair was as red as his own.

Sasori looked at the Kazekage – the bijuu host, the Jinchuuriki, Gaara of the Desert – and made a clear, concise decision: _Save them. If you do, there is at least a chance of survival – if you don't, you're dead already._

The sand around Sasori finally dissipated completely. It drew back, its commander slightly uncertain but still bold enough to release his captive.

"I'll get you spare puppets." He stated, dully, and turned away from Sasori.

Now it was Gaara's turn to place his trust in another. At this point Sasori could turn and run.

It...wouldn't make too much of a difference if he did, as Gaara had placed a bit of sand in the Missing nin's clothing that would allow the boy to be aware if he moved out of the area. But more so than that, if Sasori fled, Suna would perish. If Sasori refused to help, Suna would perish.

The only thing left was to hope that Sasori would keep up the end of the bargain. That was all.

But for now he walked away from the other, moving towards the hub of activity in the medical center, knowing that Chiyo would be leading the attempts to cure the village.

The medics were mostly in one room, all working on chemicals brewing and being tested on scrolls. The others were busyboys, running ingredients and needed medication to and from the room, respectively.

He had never met Chiyo before (In truth he had, but he was much, much too young to remember) so he sought out the commanding medic, not knowing who to expect.

Sasori couldn't veil his surprise at being so easily released, and for a moment – just a moment – he considered making a break for it. Then he brushed the idea aside. Even if he managed to escape this building, there was still the rest of Suna. Even if he managed to escape Suna, there was the rest of the goddamned _desert._ Of course the Kazekage had no qualms about leaving him there unguarded.

A passing youth found his arm in the grip of fingers that squeezed too hard for comfort, and dropped a few handfuls of herbs with a yelp as he was yanked roughly before the individual who had grabbed him.

"Take me to room 501 of hallway A2."

The boy stumbled over a protest, biting it back with a low whine as the hand constricted around his ever so delicate bones, not quite tight enough to damage them. Nurses assembled throughout the busy hall paused in the midst of their labor. Their slow shock was evident, as was their wariness of the stranger in their midst. The fear that rose from the one he held was a palpable, sour taste in the back of the puppeteer's mouth.

"Room 501." He growled, and the boy nodded, swallowing a whimper and blinking away the tears that budded in the corners of his eyes. Sasori released him, his lip curling in scornful disgust, and followed as the young medic led him to his destination. He diligently ignored the stares of the surrounding villagers. They wondered who this young man was, and why their Kazekage had brought him here when he seemed more likely to cause harm than help.

"Chiyo-Baa-sama?" An old woman turned away from her work at the sound of her name, her lined face glistening with sweat from her ceaseless labor and her dark eyes glazed as she was drawn away from the rhythm of her labor. They cleared as she refitted her consciousness to meet the requirements of human interaction. The girl who had spoken to her bowed respectfully to her elder as she was acknowledged with a look, rising as the woman waved her on impatiently. There was no time for formalities in the midst of the wretched, horrible calamity. "Kazekage-sama would like to see you, Chiyo-Baa-sa-"

"Where is he?" Scrubbing her palms hastily on her robes, she swiped aside the girl's attempt at respect with all of the gentleness of a bear swiping at trout in the riverbed. _This damn well better be important, because every wasted minute can cost this village a life._

"By the door, Chi-" No chance to finish. The grey elder had already brushed past her, weaving in and out amongst her subordinates. She found her query where he was said to be and promptly launched herself into a conversation. To her, the Kazekage held no more standing than the girl who had brought to her news of his arrival in the medical wing, and she treated him as such – boldly, carelessly, and roughly. Rudely, one might say. It was all in her nature to do so.

"What do you want, brat?" Even with her robes stained with herbal fluids and blood and sweat, her hair in a damp, mussed bun, and her old body shaking from a mixture of age and fatigue, she managed to convey an aura of impatient superiority. No nonsense here, boy. I've been around much longer than you have, and I've seen the shit the world goes through, and don't think I owe you any respect 'cause I damn well _don't_.

Oh. And to think that stoic, unshakeable expression had been going so well up until that point. Gaara's look of unyielding blank nearly fell in on itself as the...woman approached him and demanded an explanation for his presence. His eyes widened only in the slightest, but it still gave him the look of a dog pinning its ears back and starting on a whimper. Maybe under other circumstances he'd been inclined to mumble weakly under his breath as he tried to gather himself. But her urgency and his urgency came together, and he found his voice to be surprisingly strong.

"I need spare puppets. There is a collection in Suna, correct? I need to know where they are." His voice was strong, but the words sounded oddly mashed together. He was speaking rather quickly.

Never had the councilmen that he spoke to on many an occasion given him this much trouble. Hm. He wondered distantly where those figures were. On some cots, also writhing and dying from the poison?

He stiffened his spine, and faced...Sasori's grandmother.

He could see where the Missing nin got some of his more...vibrant personality traits.

The old woman narrowed her eyes at the Kazekage.

He wasn't a puppet user, and wasn't the sort to dabble in that fine art, particularly not now. Any of the village puppeteers would know where the room was, so he couldn't _possibly_ be running any errands for one of them. Not that they would use anything but their own equipment anyway. So what was his purpose, asking after the location of that room that was thick with dust and things forgotten, reeking of old varnish and older wood?

"What for?" She asked, her voice an age-broken croak in the back of her throat. She was well aware she shouldn't be wasting what precious time they had with such questions, but she had to know. As a puppeteer herself, she had to know.

There was something not quite right about the whole affair. The Kazekage's disappearance, his return. The violet cloud of death that had spread over the village in a fashion all too familiar...a style she almost thought she recognized. She'd searched with her eyes while she healed the people collapsed in the street, but she hadn't looked very hard. Really, she didn't _want_ to know who had released that plague upon Suna. Didn't _want_ to discover what she feared she might.

Now, though, someone was requesting puppets. Someone who had no business in doing so.

It was too peculiar to ignore.

Gaara had a choice to consider.

He could tell Chiyo that it was her grandson, Missing nin for god knows how long, who had been unwillingly brought to the village to medicate its inhabitants, asking for the puppet parts to be able to more quickly drum up an antidote to the poison he had inflicted on the village. But from what he had seen, Sasori did not share an affectionate relationship with his grandmother.

In his mind, he pictured the already ferocious woman demanding to know where he was, and the lengthy, melodramatic affair that would ensue would cost them a lot of time.

On the other end, attempting to dance his way around the subject of Sasori, a vocal attempt he'd probably fail in the end anyways, could waste even more time.

So, honesty it was, then.

"Sasori needs them. I destroyed his puppets prior to returning to Suna and he's missing an arm. He's manufacturing his antidote and extra sets of arms might increase his production."

It sounded like deadpan humor coming from him. And it probably looked it, too.

For a moment, it was as though her heart stopped in her chest. Despite the hustle and bustle of the people rushing past and around her in all directions, there was nothing but silent stillness in her mind. Shock gripped her, cold and hard and stronger than any foe she had encountered.

She'd expected it, but at the same time, she hadn't.

"Sa...so..." The incomplete name on her withered lips sounded weak, and she heard that weakness – hated it for what it was. Sasori. The son of her son. The boy she'd dedicated so much of her life to, and yet...not enough. There was never enough love in her heart to replace his parents. What she managed to give him he'd pushed away, forcefully so when he'd seen through the lie she'd sustained for weeks, then months, then years. He'd left in the silence of night with blood staining the blades of his puppets. Puppets he'd built with skill and speed that she had scarcely believed.

He was in Suna. Now. Had been there before not long ago, by the sound of it. Presumably, the poison gasses had exploded onto the village shortly after his departure.

Part of her needed to see him, to check if he was alright. A younger Chiyo wanted to go to the little baby she'd tended to so carefully so long ago...But she knew that she had duties to attend to, and the shinobi she had been trained to be told her that whoever had come back with young Gaara was _not_ the child she had raised. He was a man. A capable, destructive, dangerous man. A missing-nin. Rogue. Any time she might waste on that murderer could be spent prolonging lives.

Her soft, wrinkle-laden mouth thinned into a hard line, and dark eyes that had grown wide with shock narrowed, the crow feet etched into their corners darkening, deepening. There was something stony about her, as cold and unforgiving as rock. She no longer cared. There was too much to do for her to have room to care.

"There's a collection of dysfunctional and disused puppets two floors down from the council room. Fourth door on the left side of the hallway, if you take the Northern stairwell. I'd suggest taking them from the far right corner – those are in the best condition. They've all been cleaned out of their poisons, so he won't be able to do any harm with them. Now, if you don'tmind, I've got things to do and places to be. So do you by the sound of it, boy."

Turning on her heel, she plunged back into the havoc without so much as a backwards glance.

Let _him_ handle her troublesome kin. Right now, she wanted nothing to do with the former resident of Suna.

The change in the elder was...disconcerting. Gaara had nothing to offer to her, to ease her shock, and had little reason to, as he saw the cold indifference replace the recognition.

In times like these, you had to set aside your old prejudices. Chiyo was a shinobi in recognizing that. Perhaps she would want to address Sasori later. She might not get that chance if he slid the missing nin out of Suna's grasp.

It seemed the best for the both of them, through his frosted opinion.

But he hadn't expected her to be completely indifferent. No. Actually he had been expecting her to be worked into a fervor. He had underestimated her, then. She seemed of one who could rise to the occasion. Pity they didn't have her on the council. But he could ponder that later.

His response coming in too late, he gave a nod to her back, and turned himself around. The location was one he knew, and he was already mapping out a way in his mind. How odd that they'd be kept in that building.

With a bit of difficulty in making his way outside, he found himself again in the ghost town of Suna.

The Democratic building of Suna was even more awkward, empty and silent save for the echoing of voices he projected in his mind--Baki? What had happened to Baki? And Kankuro. He knew Temari would be well; she wasn't due back for a while now, but the others?

...He didn't want to see them in the state he feared they were in. He _wouldn't_ see them until they were well! This he swore to himself, and it drove him as he traveled down the stairs and forced open a locked door.

The dust and fumes in the air made him cough immediately.

The room was dark, and he had to fumble around for a source of light. But from what he could see...the silhouettes from the light behind him...

Puppets. Humanoid. Broken. Tangled.

He should have been used to the forms, with both Sasori and Kankuro's puppets in memory, but there was something different about these. Something that likened them to walking through a mausoleum.

He averted his eyes from the most of them, and flicked on the switch for the fluorescent lights. The spell was broken, for the most part, now that he could see them all. They were stacked like tragic figures in bundled masses, with free limbs and heads here and there. Hesitantly, he grabbed an intact arm on the table that seemed to match Sasori's in design. Far right corner. In the back, the puppets seemed more stable, and less contorted.

Gathering up an amount of sand, he grabbed around ten that seemed, to his inexperienced eye, to be in working order.

With those in hand, he flicked off the lights, and left the rest to their continued sleep.

Back in the medical center, he found the hallways much more difficult to navigate stepping over the hastily arranged medical cots on the floor with the floating mass of puppets behind him.

But then again, there seemed to be less people in the hallways.

He hurried to room 502.

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori , Chiyo**

**Sorry about the late update, all! I was off on break, and (unfortunately) had no computer access. ChibiEd, I assure you that I have absolutely **_**no**_** intention of stopping work on this piece because of a lack of reviews. As for the rest of you wonderful readers...thank you **_**so**_** much for the support you've given this story! I know it's an obscure pairing, and I know that, as this being my first, I'm not exactly well-known...but you've given me so much encouragement as a writer. So thanks. A hella lot. HOWEVER! The credit does not entirely go to me. I only wrote HALF of the fic. And my partner in crime's username is up at the end of each chapter now. You finally know who the hell ELSE is writing this.**

**So. Go see some of her other stuff. Lightning is love.**


	7. Chemistry

Sasori turned a glass tube over in his hand, examining it for any sign of cracks or filth. Either of the two would be a problem for his work, one creating venomous leaks and the other tainting the fluids. But he found himself rather impressed by the proficiency of the medical staff of Suna - there was nothing wrong with it. There hadn't been anything amiss with the others, either. All of his materials were pristine, cleaned spotless. The room was in similar condition, with neatly tiled white floors and walls. The ceiling was lined with fluorescent lights that cast a harsh and unflattering glow on everything beneath them.

With a small nod to himself, he returned the glassware to its previous location on the stainless steel table, placing it delicately amongst identical others. In the unmeasured amount of time he'd had alone, he'd checked every tool and every container. Any flaws could cost him his freedom, and he wasn't willing to take chances.

The door against the far wall creaked open with a groan of old hinges, letting in a breath of air and an echoing crescendo of voices from outside, and Sasori turned away from the workbench to see who might be breaking the peaceful near-silence. He was expecting a nurse carrying another armload of syringes, as they had been for the past however-long-he'd-been-in-there.

Which was why he blinked in surprise when he saw none other but his captor in the doorway. He'd been unprepared for those teal eyes in their pale face, framed by hair not unlike his own. He faltered, caught off-guard and rather unsuspecting, and he found his single arm reaching for the table.

However, when he saw the burden the Kazekage carried behind him, his lips curved slowly into a pleased smile.

"I suppose Chiyo told you where to find them." No inflection of emotion in his voice. No change in his expression. Nothing for the old woman who fought with the demons of her past mistakes.

Releasing the edge of his workbench, he brushed his hand off on his cloak – unnecessarily, because the table was as clean as everything else in the room – and gestured at an empty corner. "Set them down over there, if you would."

Gaara blinked, his expression mild. For a second, Sasori seemed surprised to see him. What an oddity. The aggression in the Kazekage had slipped away, and the 'regality' he had been showing had faded ever since his meeting with Chiyo. He had returned to his typical state of calm.

Without much concern or thought to the action, he gestured one hand, and the sandy bundle hovered over to the aforementioned corner, and placed itself down. Gaara gathered up the sand, every grain, to avoid contamination or grit in the joints. This movement took much thought, in comparison to the other, and it took him a few breaths standing in that place with the slightest creases on his brow and in between his eyes. But then the sand came away in a mass, and he gestured for it to travel somewhere outside. In a place where no one would trip on it. 

Satisfied, he came towards Sasori, and extended the lone wooden arm he had also picked up.  
It..._looked_ like it might be the right size.

"Here." He offered, blandly. 

He was tempted to tell the other of how much his grandmother seemed to want to harm him, but that wouldn't have had much effect. And the other probably already knew it.

Sasori took the arm at its base, near the round ball that would slip into his vacant shoulder. For a moment he examined it. Only a moment. Then, with a slight frown and a tightening of his jaw, he lifted it and pressed it into the empty socket. There was a small groan of bending wood, followed by a snapping pop that echoed in the hard, near-empty space. The new limb hung limply at his side.

A practiced hand darted over the inanimate fingers, brushing over every joint and false knuckle, drifting up to the elbow in a similarly quick, fluid fashion and – finally – coming to rest on the shoulder, where he focused his full attention for a few silent moments. Then, the original lifted away, disconnecting from the chakra strings it had wrought, and the new limb stirred from its previous state of inactivity.

Sasori lifted it to flex and twist experimentally, examining it with a critical eye and ear, feeling the way it moved. He tilted his head at the faint creaks and clicks, eyes sifting halfway shut as he focused on the soft noises. There was much sound involved in his art – much careful, precise listening to the puppets, to hear and understand the words they spoke. Attend, master puppeteer. This is what is wrong with me and this is what is right with me.

Satisfied with what he heard, he let his arm drop, rolling his shoulder as he adjusted to the feel of the foreign joint. It was not as finely made as the rest of him, unfortunately, but it would do for now; he could always create a new arm for himself later.

Nodding what might have been a subtle thanks to the Kazekage, he strode past him to the heaped pile of puppets.

Gaara looked on as Sasori reattached his arm to the socket, mentally grimacing at the sound it made when it popped back into place. He was used to clattering wood and the jerky, abrupt sound of puppets, but that didn't mean he saw them as pleasant. Especially after his repeated encounters with Sasori's finely tuned weapons.

He was curious as to how Sasori had modified his body to be able to replace limbs like that. He wondered where the shoulder joint ended and where his chest began. But it was whimsical wondering, and he let his attention shift with Sasori's, over to the ten puppets. The nod of thanks? Hardly noticed, let alone acknowledged at all.

For a short while, Sasori stared at the jumble more than slightly critically. Poor quality, obvious signs of disrepair and disuse, some of them cracked and fractured, some of them missing toes and ears and eyes. Grating, dry. They were far from the best, but...they could've been worse. Not by much, but they could've been.

He heaved a mental sigh.

_I'll make do._

The brush of a finger, and one body was pulled easily from the mound with a miniscule flick. Another small touch, and another jumped to life. So the pattern repeated until ten faceless, mindless subordinates were lined up before him, some slumping against the wall behind them. Having untangled his new work force, he drifted to each one individually, attaching strings to their fingers to achieve finer motor skills. It took only minutes, and by the end of it, he controlled six exclusively with his intact left hand and four exclusively with his borrowed right.

A twitch, and each of his new puppets simultaneously fisted their hands. A second motion, and they relaxed. A small pull, and ten wooden frames made their jerking, disjointed ways across the room to assemble themselves before the glassware laden table.

Sasori nodded slow approval, casting a glance at the boy. "Quality isn't the best, but they'll work. Not very well or very long, but well and long enough."

The puppets' movements were initially disturbing, but Gaara could observe them slowly becoming more lifelike. Joints eased, and the bending of hinges and ball rotations became more natural. Sasori's chakra was faint to him, almost unnoticeable.

"You make them look human." He remarked, a thoughtless non sequitor to the puppeteer's statement. 

But it was good. He might have increased Sasori's productivity tenfold by gathering the leftover puppets.

When Sasori turned his amber eyes back to the humanoid forms, his gaze was not as flat and as it had been before. There was a dim, nearly hidden expression that was not quite unreadable, if one was watching carefully. Fondness for the art of puppetry, if not for the puppets themselves. A hint of pride. And beneath it all, a faint, practically undetectable taste of some distant, remembered melancholy. It wasn't quite sadness, but it was something close.

"The joy of puppets..." He murmured, more to himself than his companion. "...is that they are not human. They are metal and wood. Things that are incapable of anything more advanced than murder. They don't hate, they don't cry, they don't love...They feel nothing. And they do not care that they feel nothing."

Tugging gently at their strings, as one might gently tug at the hand of a tarrying child, he watched them lurch into movement. At the silent order, ten puppets began to sort through glass jars and tubes, placing them about the table, exchanging them amongst themselves. One mind controlled little less than a dozen bodies, and the work was as smoothly coordinated as a dance. Had one not known better, they might have thought that the lifeless forms had minds of their own, speaking to one another unheard. This is needed here, and that there. Pass me that, if you would. Thank you. Now, as for _that_-

The flat line of Gaara's mouth slowly turned. It curved, downwards, into the palest frown. Puppets were weapons. Advanced weapons. They were used as tools, they were used to kill. They were wood, metal, poison and springs. All sorts of both fragile and resilient mechanisms. 

They were never alive. 

And what was what Sasori found joy in them, for? 

That they weren't sentient, that they couldn't feel?

Something in him, akin distantly to anger, perhaps revulsion came to the surface like a bubble. Merely, it was the sudden realization about an imagined flaw in the puppeteer's logic. He rolled his gaze from the tools to the shinobi, and his slate-cool eyes focused on the other's face.

"If their lack of life is what appeals to you, why try to make them look human?" 

Who knows. Maybe it was logical, only he didn't understand it. He couldn't understand a lot of things.

There was a small twitch in the puppeteer's body as he seemed to flinch at the other's question, a faltering in the fluid movements of the puppets before they reclaimed their rhythm. They were quite nearly finished organizing the table as he saw fit, human fingers curling around thin glass and human hands exchanging, human eyes staring blankly ahead. Animate corpses crafted of dead wood and steel.

_Because a human body lacking in emotions is what I strive to be, Kazekage. And they are a manifestation of that singular desire to _not_ desire more than anything else in the world. In their own way, they help me. They teach me. They show me everything I am and everything I can become...that's why._

A thought. Nothing more. And not one he was inclined to share with the youth.

Sasori kept an eye on the puppets, his fingers continuing their patterns, even as he slipped one hand into a pocket of his cloak and felt around. He was rewarded by the discovery of four glass vials. Extracting them from the black depths, he offered them absently to the Kazekage.

Inside the capsules, pale lavender fluid.

What he had left of his antidotes.

Gaara reached out to clasp the vials, and lowered his gaze as the feeling of everything that had happened return to him. Everyone was still dying.

"How many doses is this?" He asked, looking towards the tile on the floor.

"Sixteen." Sasori informed him dispassionately, never drawing his eyes away from his work. "That's the minimal amount required for the recovery of a healthy shinobi. For children, there are only twelve. Elders and the previously infirm, eight. The antidote is not concentrated, so their recoveries will be slow, but they will recover. Doubling the dosage will quicken it."

He was done dealing with the glassware, and at a wave of his hand, the puppets stilled.

"Now, if you would, I'll need some water and..." He paused, calculating. "Two burners, six square feet of sterile cloth, and four mortars and pestles."

A somewhat late request, but for a good reason. Before asking for those, he'd needed to see how many puppets he would have at his disposal, and how many available containers. Having what little information he needed, now, he could make such entreaties.

_One fourth for a healthy Shinobi. One third a vial for a child. One half for an elder._ Gaara wrote it in his memory, so that he could pass off the information to a nurse, who would be more useful with the knowledge. 

As for the supplies... Water. Two burners. Six feet of sterile cloth. Four mortar sets.

Without much consideration to leaving Sasori, the young Kazekage walked out of the room, and found the nurse that he had addressed earlier with Sasori's items and for the location of the room. She was looking worse then when he had first seen her. Bags under her eyes. Cold sweat. But still she visibly perked up upon seeing him, and waited for his command.

With a careful precision, he gave her the four vials to hold in both hands. 

"These are antidotes." He told her, "One fourth of a vial will cure a healthy adult..." She listened as well as she could, but even as he gave her the instructions he could see her health waning. "...Cure yourself first." He finally concluded. "Ask someone to get me some supplies."

At least there was hope. The offering of future relief gave the medic nin the strength to go on, to go to the heads of the hospital to distribute the vials to the ones who needed it the most.

Gaara could only hope that the other medics would rid themselves of the toxin first. If they went down, they all would.

For a while he lingered outside the doorway, staring at the sign that read A2 in black letterings. 

Only thing to do now was to wait until the supplies arrived.

Sasori watched him leave. The rigidity of his shoulders slackened – a stiffness he hadn't realized he had until it was gone – and he leant against the smooth, white-tiled wall behind him, pressing the fingers of his intact right hand to his eyes. His chest expanded and contracted as an airy sigh escaped him.

The question the boy had asked him had gone straight through him in a way he grudgingly understood, but at the same time did not _want_ to understand. It was more complicated than the silent answer he hadn't really given. Complicated to the extent that even _he_ wasn't sure why he was so fascinated with humanoid puppets. Part of it was the desire to see the embodiment of what he wanted to become; true. Part of it was the jutsu that he alone had a gift for; also true. But added to those was a third and final piece of the puzzle that he just couldn't find.

Was it some distant, childish longing for company? Perhaps. Young boys and girls alike always have _some_ sort of inanimate object that they like to consider a sentient being, which they love and care for confide in. Though, as an adult, he had long since outgrown such imaginative dependencies.

Was it a prideful wish to see his trophies of death on display? He would've considered it, were it not for the first two puppets he'd ever made. Though, admittedly, they too could be considered trophies of death, they had not been at the time of their making.

But if not those – and there was little else he could think of that would be anywhere near logical – what _was_ his reason for the puppets that looked and moved like people? There was something more, he knew. But...

The fact of the matter was, he didn't _want _to know.

Because the answer was one he wouldn't like. That much was certain.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he drifted over to the puppets that stood in their still, silent row. He lifted his hand – his real but not real hand – and brushed it lightly over the broad back of one as he passed it, wood creating smooth, unpolished friction beneath his touch. The arm of another was examined by fingers that, for once, were not checking for flaws or attaching strings. Circling yet another, he traced the uneven shape of a jaw with his thumb. Brown eyes flickered over faces. Wooden faces. Empty faces. Beautiful faces.

He remembered, once upon a time, crossing his arms over his chest, and feeling stiff, mechanical, imagined love surround him in the form of stiff, mechanical, imagined parents.

Sasori hand pulled away from the hard curve of that jaw, fingers curling into a fist that dropped heavily to his side.

Stiff. Mechanical. Imagined.

_Story of my life._

Outside, Gaara neither saw the puppeteer's actions or heard his bitter thoughts.

When the medic nin returned, she was in much better shape, having grudgingly obeyed Gaara's command to cure herself. Still, she was weak, but she was carrying a collection of supplies and a fellow medic (also looking notably healthier then others seen in the building). Eager to help, but also eager to get back to helping the others with her regenerating strength.

It lifted Gaara's mood to see the antidote work, and he once more was able to assure himself the people poisoned would be saved. Even if it was by the one who had poisoned them in the first place.

In all honesty, the blame for this whole event was not placed on Sasori. Gaara, in his pitiful view, was blaming himself for everything. After all, Sasori was just attempting to cement a less stressful capture. He had been the one who had put his village at risk, and brought it to this fate.

With some chipper strength, the medics went into the room and set the various chemical and medical items out for Sasori with precise movements, admirable in their state.

"If you need anything else," The first of the two gave a great smile, towards Sasori, rather then the Kazekage, "Just ask." A short near bow, and the second medic left, while the first lingered, as if waiting for a dismissal.

Sasori watched one of the women leave, more than slightly perturbed by the semi-bow she had graced him with. The second he spared a glance before ignoring. Just because he was _saving_ them didn't mean he _acknowledged_ them. Nor that he wanted any form of their respect.

Shrugging it off nonchalantly, he returned to his work.

An artful twist of the wrist, and his puppets moved to gather and organize the materials the pair had brought. One placed the burners atop the table, igniting them. Three others filled armfuls of glassware with water. Two stretched the ream of fabric out between them while those that were left gathered the mortars and pestles and made their way to their master. Reaching again into the folds of his cloak, Sasori delved into one of the many pockets and withdrew a handful of leaves, which he divided evenly amongst the four. That done, he dusted his hands off and set the borrowed machines to work.

The plant was ground into a fine dust by the pestle quartet, drifting between the table and their puppeteer, who provided them with yet more pinches of herbs. When their bowls began to fill, they emptied measured amounts of the powder into the vials, the water inside of them turning a hazy bluish-black. The water-filled glasses were then set to boil above the burners while the rest were assembled in rows.

It was a smooth operation, and a productive one. Had he been working on his own, the labor would have been many times slower. But with one set of hands he controlled ten, dividing the work time notably.

Sasori watched it all with passive eyes and skittering fingers.

The obedient medic saw she was not needed, but still watched for a while, perhaps wanting to regain some of her strength while observing the wonder in the way he made the puppets move about. But after a while, perhaps she remembered she had a task to resume, she gave a stout bow to Gaara and left the room.

Sasori seemed to be working efficiently. It was interesting to watch the puppet's actions, and then look to Sasori and see only his hands moving in that trademark rhythmic method of puppeteers.

Gaara was not the pacing type of person, so he merely stood at the wall and looked on.

Funny. And the group of puppets had seemed so dead when he had found them. He wondered distantly how Kankuro would manage the manikins, if he even could use that many at once.

There was nothing to say at the moment. Gaara wouldn't have the puppeteer getting distracted, after all.

The two glasses above the burners had come to a gurgling boil. Inside of them, the water was no longer dark blue. It had taken on a slightly pinker hue, lightening to deep violet. Poison stage.

One puppet removed them both from their places without much regard for the scalding heat – it couldn't feel it, after all. Another took up the ream of fabric and tore out two small squares, one of which it exchanged with the other for a beaker. Both fitted the cloths around the tops, holding them in place with wooden fingers.

A particularly large container, more of a glass bucket than anything else, sat empty on the corner of the table. The transparent bowl was big by any standards, and had probably come from the kitchens rather than the medical stores. He'd requested it specially, and received more than a few peculiar looks and glances as the medics made mental exchanges, wondering where they might acquire such an object. Obviously they'd managed it.

Carefully, the puppets emptied the purple water into it. The cloth covering the tops of their glasses darkened, becoming heavier as miniscule clumps of plant were caught by the mesh. The fluid that poured out was clearer, lighter. Still too dark to be the delicate lavender of the antidote that he'd provided the Kazekage with, but he was planning to make this batch more concentrated.

Sasori produced something – yet again – from the folds of his robes. A bottle, this time. It was stained black, and its smooth sides glinted in the light of the fluorescents overhead. Pulling out the cork that plugged it shut, he leant over the mixture, tilting it until a single ebony droplet clung to the rim of the bottle. A pause as the liquid trembled on the edge. Then it fell, dropping into the poison below it with a soft plink. The puppeteer corked the bottle and returned it to its hidden location. The deep purple in the bowl darkened. In a short while, it would lighten again as the two poisons – each deadly on its own – nullified each other. Half an hour, and he would be able to fill a multitude of syringes with a highly concentrated antidote.

Sasori spared the Kazekage a glance. "This one will take care of three times as many per vial." He informed him, his voice flat. "But be sure not to overdose – too much could send the body into shock. You should give one individual no more than three times the minimum dosage."

Gaara had never any experience with poisons, or even basic chemicals. Unlike puppets, whose basic natures he could comprehend well enough, the entire process was too complicated for him. He did find himself caught wondering how exactly the colors changed so much, whether it was the natures of the chemicals themselves or if Sasori had added something in them to allow it.

He looked to the other as he was addressed, and he gave a blank nod.

He was tempted, yes, to ask how the chemicals changed colors, but he'd probably end up only confused.

"Will the Akatsuki let you back in, knowing you were captured by the enemy?"

Sasori seemed to be at a pause at the moment, and if the other spoke to Gaara then maybe it was an allowed time to speak back.

The question was a bit too forward, considering that few people had been cured and he still could not quite guarantee any freedom, but it was something that could complicate things for Sasori. And, if answered, might provide some information on the organization in question.

Sasori was silent, his eyes sliding back to the puppets as they continued to work. His face was passive, as though he hadn't heard the question Gaara had asked, or as if he didn't particularly care. But his eyes – ever the traitorous whirlpools in an otherwise calm sea – flickered with his thoughts, downcast and shadowed, watching someone else's creations do the labor that his own were too broken to complete.

Pain would be displeased.

More than displeased – _furious_.

It would've been bad enough had he returned with the Jinchuuriki on alert that he was wanted by someone. If the puppet master went back having been a captive, forced to assist in the healing of the village, essentially a _slave_ to the bijuu vessel a he and Deidara had been assigned to capture...

What would the Akatsuki leader do to him? Forgive him? Reject him? Kill him?

The last two seemed more likely than the first.

He hadn't really given it any thought before, but now...he had to wonder. What if he _wasn't_ accepted back in? Assuming they let him live, they would take his ring (which, he now noted, was gone, along with his whole left arm), the cloak on his back. They'd remove him and his belongings from the room he'd lived in for years, now, at the primary base. His workshop there would be disassembled, possibly destroyed. If they refused him...it would be gone. Everything. All he had and all he knew. He would be replaced, as those who died were replaced. His absence would be noted, but not missed.

_Will the Akatsuki let you back in, knowing you were captured by the enemy?_

"I..." Sasori avoided the other's gaze, his voice a soft murmur, "...I don't know..."

That was a negative sign, for both Sasori and Gaara alike.

If Sasori was expendable, and Sasori was a high level missing nin, then that meant that the organization had others ready to step in. And a group with that amount of people that strong would be a definite problem.

And for Sasori, it probably held even more immediately negative connotations, seeing as he was the one who might be replaced.

But maybe Sasori wouldn't be replaced, as in the back of his mind Gaara doubted it. Maybe his pride had just been shot after having been captured.

Either way, Sasori's lack of a firm answer spoke loud enough.

The Suna inhabitant drew back, satisfied, thinking that was all the information the taciturn missing nin would give him. He would ask more questions later. They would have time.

No more questions from the Kazekage.

Good – he didn't particularly feel like answering any.

Sasori couldn't be sure who they would replace him with, if they did; it was getting harder and harder to find someone strong enough to be accepted. It could be that they would be a group of eight until they found someone appropriately powerful...but they would find someone. Eventually. If needed, they would go to rebel groups to find a recruit, as they had with Deidara and his terrorist anti-nationalist organization after Orochimaru left.

He kept his fingers moving in a repetitive pattern, the puppets working while he emptied his mind, going through the rhythms but not really thinking about it.

It took concentration to force the Akatsuki out of his thoughts. Pain, with his many faces. Konan, with her uncaring ways. Hidan and Kisame, with their mocking words. Zetsu, with his palpable silence and the laughter of his tag-along, Tobi. Itachi, with his cold and dangerous stare. Kakuzu, with his mutters of what a waste of time – and therefore money – some people could be. And Deidara, with his constant cries of, '_art is a bang, un!_' that made him cringe and scowl every time he heard.

Sasori flicked a finger at a puppet, and it put down the glass it had been holding to wander across the room. It bent to gather an armful of syringes, carting them over to the table and the bowl settled atop it, in which the poisons were working against each other while the water paled. Only a tad bit longer, and they would be ready. Meanwhile, the bodies he controlled continued to grind up leaves and boil navy-blue water, putting aside the fluids when they turned violet so that they would be ready for the next drop of blackness.

Activity provided temporary, comfortable distraction from thoughts of the future, and he dedicated himself to it gladly.

A brief glance at the bowl after a while of maneuvering puppets around the room told him it was ready. Of the manikins that moved about the room, he pulled five away from their labor, putting them to work filling needles with antidote that was only a shade darker than the original, but notably more potent. The bowl began to empty, slowly. Every prepared syringe was placed delicately on the table in a neat row.

Sasori slipped between the machines, Gathering five into his hands before returning to his previous place near the far wall.

A brief examination, and he offered them to the Kazekage.

There was no reason for Sasori to initiate any conversation with him. Nor was it in any way likely that he would divulge explicit information on his organization. Gaara could at least take pride in how he was not that naive.

He found himself envying the other, who returned his work when he had stopped talking. Once more, he let himself ponder over the puppets' movements. But what wonder he had was punctually drowned out by the feeling of anticipation that came when more potent containers of the antidote were being prepared.

Yes. More lives saved. That was what they represented, after all.

With an arm outstretched, he accepted the sheathed syringes.

Three times as powerful. That was the dosage. He might have preferred it had Sasori given him the dosages in milliliters instead of ratios. Those were more difficult for his mind to translate into ideal material.

For a moment he paused, lingering near Sasori while the puppets worked for another batch of the antidote. Maybe...he should express some gratitude. That might be an appropriate gesture. For he was grateful to Sasori.

But in a sudden nip of clarity, he recalled who he was thinking of. Gratitude wouldn't matter to Sasori. The only thanks the Akatsuki would be looking for would be escape from the village.

His fingers closed around the glass, firmly, but still cautiously, and the Kazekage once more walked out of the room, to hand over the priceless material.

Sasori noted the hesitation of the boy absently, as one might note that the fellow crossing the street was wearing a coat: a trinket of knowledge that passed through the mind and was quickly dismissed. Perhaps forgotten. Unnecessary information whose pointlessness (for some reason) the brain was not apt to disregard.

After a moment of watching the other pass off the fruits of his labor, he returned to the seamless flow of the work.

Puppets here, puppets there, puppets all and everywhere. Tending to bubbling water, grinding leaves to dust, filling needles with the cooling lavender fluids in the rounded glass bucket. The longer he watched them, the easier it became to do everything that needed to be done, the less conscious thought it required. For a man used to handling over a hundred at a time, ten was nothing. Particularly for this. The rhythm was unbroken, the largest distraction being when the bowl was emptied and refilled, and it came time to tilt in another droplet the color of starless sky. Simple.

Sasori sighed, his fingers moving. There was a degree of peace in the activity of medicine-making, but at the same time, boredom. He found greater contentment in the handling of puppets – perhaps that was the only reason why his thoughts weren't _completely_ stagnant in this coldly pristine atmosphere. The creak of their limbs, accented by the clinking of glass, was a sound comforting and familiar to his ears. The sight of them moving at the pull of his strings was also a welcome reprieve from the monotony. If only the air were filled with the sweet, husky scent of sanded wood and the tang of varnish and oils.

Syringes were prepared, and again he moved to gather them, turning them over in his hands with the fluids inside of them still warm against his palm. Ten, this time. Progress was good.

The syringes Gaara had carried from the room were presented to the medics, whose stomachs could be heard evidently growling. But despite their hunger they worked with more optimistic fervor. Actually, it seemed that the only working nin who weren't at least slightly more energized were the ones around Chiyo recently, who noted that she seemed even more vicious and 'bitchy' (as some put it) than ever in memory.

Gaara accurately figured it had to do with Sasori's presence.

When he presented the new antidotes to the two nurses with news that more were on the way, they looked at him as if they might hug him. He tried not to look defensive about it, either. But one remarked that, 'There are still many people that need taking care of,' as they took it from him. He nodded and confirmed her sentiment.

And soon he was ushered back to hallway A2, to pick up and transport any new antidotes that Sasori should craft.

And thus he found his mood rather uplifted, as far as his moods could go anyways. And it did not dampen any as he returned to see Sasori's work coming along, perhaps in an even more graceful and calculated manner.

Sasori looked up from the handful of needles as the door opened, admitting a blast of air and noise. The boy had returned, and – curiously – he seemed less..._icy_ than he had before. There was less steel in his manner.

Lifting the glinting metal and glass and capsules of antidote for him to see, he asked, in a display of rather uncharacteristic concern for the affairs of the village, "How are they?" The medics, the treated, the _un_treated. Any of them. All of them. Of course, his question stemmed merely from a curiosity as to how his antidotes were working. Of course. If they were doing well, his chances of being set free (like some fucking _bird_ with clipped wings) were much greater than if some were eating dirt sandwiches while under the influence of his medicines.

Freedom. That was his sole thought and purpose. He could care less what happened once he was gone. They could all just conk over _dead_ for all he cared. And he didn't care. Of course.

_Of course_.

Definitely more uplifted indeed, as Gaara regarded Sasori's uncharacteristic concern (actually, it might have been puzzling to the boy had he not been so eager to tell someone that indeed, there was hope). But even though the Suna resident was...possibly quite happy, his voice still held its usual tone. 

"The ones who have received the antidote are recovering quickly. I suspect their eagerness to help aids them, but they are working diligently." 

It wasn't entirely mechanical. Not entirely.

"You finished more?" He abruptly asked, tilting his head ever so slightly. Good. That was more good news; that was about thirty more citizens cured, at the least.

Oh well. Sasori worked fast, and it was good for the both of them. If Sasori had seemed interested in the fate of the poisoned villagers outside the room, it was probably because he was eager to leave. 

Pity Gaara couldn't be as eager to see him go.

Sasori nodded, holding out the antidotes for him to take, his eyes flicking away from the puppets to direct themselves at the Kazekage. One of the wooden bodies paused with its hand over a beaker, as though listening to unheard directions, before jerking back into movement. There was no reason or rhyme to its falter. None, other than the slight blip of distraction in the puppeteer's mind, during which he momentarily stilled the index finger that controlled it.

They were doing well.

Good.

"I'll have another batch ready in half an hour." He informed him, pulling his gaze back to the tuneless dance of the puppets. "You can go wander-" Or _something_. "-until then, if you want." You can go wander even _after_ then, too, though it would be a bit more convenient if you didn't. But you're the Kazekage, _Kazekage_. Stay, leave, dance on the ceiling...whatever the hell you feel like. I don't care.

**Lightning Ougi: I'm sorry, but I just got the mental image of  
'Gaara shrugged his shoulders, "If you insist." And abruptly he was on the popcorned plaster above Sasori, punching gravity in its figurative face, mambo-ing as only a Suna nin could.' **

**(Nightmaretears: That had me off of my chair, a breath away from dying of laughter. I figured I may as well share the giggles with our lovely readers. I'll let you get back to the story now.)**

Once more, Gaara accepted another load of antidotes. Good. More busyboying for him to do, work for him to bury himself in, if even for the moment. They were a bit of a handful, and he almost wanted to gather in a bit of sand to cradle them. But after steadying himself, he was able to hold them properly, and gave Sasori a nod. There. Now he just had to get them to the medics, they'd be dispersed, and more people would be up and walking. 

He turned to the door, but a sudden, cooling thought put a damper on his mood. It was something he should have asked earlier. Why...hadn't he asked that earlier? 

"Sasori." The name was a particularly soft sounding one, despite its pointed meaning. 

"Do you think you'll produce enough antidotes in time?" As soon as he had voiced it, he regretted it. 

There was no promise that the puppeteer would answer that truthfully. Why would he want to, anyways? A negative answer might harm his chances at freedom. 

But still, Gaara wanted the other's medical opinion.

Sasori glanced at the other when he heard his name, slightly bewildered by the tone. It was odd, to say the least. Almost gentle. Fragile. Though what followed it made the softness make sense; it was a delicate sort of color to a delicate sort of question.

Very delicate.

Filling the silence with the music of creaking and clicking and clacking and clinking, he turned it over in his mind. There were plenty enough herbs left to make what they needed, and the black bottle was still full. No problems with supplies, so those wouldn't need to be figured into the equation. He could certainly produce the amount required to heal the village. Time-wise...well, it would be tight. For the healthy shinobi, even, it would be tight.

"I'll be able to make as much as you need, and as soon as you'll need it. But," Yes, there was a 'but', though he didn't accent it by stopping the movements of the puppets; the minutes were too precious. "I would suggest using it first on the elders, children, and the ill. They are the weakest, and they'll be the first to go when death comes knocking. The others will be able to wait longer."

He said it earnestly, but he didn't know whether or not the boy would be smart enough – or fool enough – to listen to him.

Either, really.

He was a missing-nin, but one who would gain little advantage through lying about the amount of anti-toxin he could produce. He was a mass murderer, but was currently disarmed and under the careful watch of his captor. He was Sasori of the Red Sand, but right now he was just another medical ninja assisting in the saving of his village, former village though it might be. Whether or not he was trustworthy was a matter of opinion at this point.

Sasori sounded honest enough. Gaara had to wonder why Sasori carried around enough herbs to supply an entire village with an antidote to his poison. The shinobi did seem like the type to always be prepared, but for the puppeteer to think of needing that much of the medicine... either Sasori was always ready for a worst case scenario, or the other didn't have enough supplies. 

But his second statement, the warning, Gaara could readily believe, and be sure that the medical nin were already acting upon it.

At least Sasori would not bother to delude him with that. Ten sets of hands creating supplies would still leave them pressed for time.

Hopefully when things begin to get stretched, they would have enough people already cured.

He had faith in the shinobi of the village. For now, he could have faith in Sasori.

"Thank you."

It was addressed to the display of what Gaara saw as honesty.

It could still have been referring to all the other was doing for the village, regardless of his position or how he caused it.

Knowing his words would be lost on someone who would rather not be bothered, Gaara held fast to the syringes and left the room.

Sasori would scarcely have been more shocked if the boy had run him through the chest with a blade.

_What?_

By the time he'd jerked his eyes to the side to see the look on the other's face – _did he mean that? _– he was already turning to leave, and gone a moment later. Leaving the puppeteer alone with his little toys on their invisible strings and thoughts that, curiously, were both roiling and blank. Stunned almost to the point at which he ceased to think at all, he turned away from the door as it creaked shut and went back into the motions of making an antidote. With a mind that was quite nearly overwhelmed. Nearly. But not _completely_.

Because somewhere, the child he had once been smiled.

Because somewhere, someone was thankful for _him._ For everything he was doing.

Most wouldn't think much of a simple 'thank you'. Those are the sorts who hear it all the time. Pass the butter? Thank you. Can you help me move these boxes? Thank you. You like my new jutsu? Aw, thanks! I worked _so_ hard on it, you know...

Sasori, though...well, he hadn't heard the words 'thank' and 'you' strung into a sentence and sincerely directed at him since he left the village.

...Some time before that, actually.

Human interaction had been, to put it frankly, _limited_ in the months before his departure. Which is just another way of saying that he avoided living, breathing bodies and sealed himself in a chamber filled with all manner of puppets. He spent his hours perfecting and creating and tearing apart whatever he didn't like until splinters and sawdust metal filaments littered the every surface in a disturbed desert of wood, and puddles of poison were numerous black oases surrounded by the hollow skeletons of insects.

But-

_Thank you?_

It was difficult to say, when the shock disintegrated, if the curling of his lip was real or forced.

_Peh. Who needs it. A waste of breath-_

_Is it?_

Doesn't matter anyway. Get back to work, and use your brain. For fuck's sake, it was two words. Eight letters.

Indeed.

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**

**I know, I know...It was a little bit boring. But it can't ALL be epic battled between puppets and demons, can it? No. However, I can honestly promise that the next chapter will be (slightly) more interesting.**


	8. Revelations

Outside of room 501, the nurses accepted the doses with a bit more restrained happiness and gratitude. It could have been that they were more focused on routine activity, knowing that the doses would continue to be made. But (and the thought made the young Kazekage terribly uneasy) their increase in focus could have been in response to impending crisis.

Tch. Now he was just being pessimistic.

As for Sasori...Gaara could not know that his statement of gratitude had any effect on the other. For all he was aware of, Sasori could care less how he felt. He only wanted to leave the village and escape with his life.

Still. The Akatsuki member's form outside of the puppet quelled whatever aggression he felt. Sasori made him withdraw, for some reason, into his guilt. Gaara had yet to figure out why. Perhaps it was because Sasori's face made him seem blameless (and, as a shinobi, Gaara couldn't blame Sasori).

He returned to the room once more. As he opened the door, there was a notable amount of noise coming from the hallway. Most of the medics had been tended to at this point. Civilians were currently being cured.

Sasori responded not at all to the return of the Kazekage, focusing his attention on the chemical-brewing forcibly – perhaps a bit _too_ forcibly, as his fine brows furrowed in a dark scowl that he was much too _focused_ to notice. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. The fluidity of his previous movement had become jerking. Harsh.

He still couldn't get those measly two words with their puny eight letters _out of his head_.

Goddamnit, stop thinking about it and _concentrate_! You'll make _some_ kind of stupid little mistake, and then you'll be _real_ _fucking_ _sorry_ and you can bet everything you have and everything you are that _nobody's_ gonna damn well thank you for _that-_

Sasori pressed the heel of his right hand against his forehead, swiping his fingers back through his hair. Six puppets paused briefly while the other four continued to move. A heavy, breathy sigh. He shifted his weight onto his left foot, and then the motions began again, everything lurching back into action. Still, he pulled too roughly at the strings...but it made little difference. Maybe they moved a little bit faster, and a little bit recklessly. Not noticeably. The whole thing was so routine and precise that it didn't matter.

Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, ignore _him_, ignore it...

The room had hardly changed. Sasori was still active, and it took Gaara a few seconds to perceive that there was any change in the puppeteer's actions. But there was, and the more he watched the other—himself walking across the room, not speaking a word—the more obvious it became. His expression was stiff, almost a grimace, but a definite scowl.

Instinctively, Gaara saw it as a response to him entering the room, and that at some point in between his departure and his return, Sasori had found a reason to be angry at him. After all, he chose not to regard his entry. Gaara was being ignored.

But the sudden shift, Sasori fussing with the hair in his face, and the sigh, suggested to Gaara that the negative look wasn't about him.

No. Rather—that it was about the medicine Sasori was attending to.

A stab of worry entered him, but his face was cool, and his voice was simply quizzical.

"Did something go wrong?"

"_Nothing_." Sasori spat, his eyes flicking to and away from the Kazekage in the space of a second. His answer was fast in coming – perhaps a bit _too_ fast – and his tone was harsh, indignant. His shoulders were stiff, his back rigid. Had he been an animal with fur, he undoubtedly would be bristling and baring his teeth, hackles raised...But, as it was, the best he could do was put off an intense aura of distaste and scorn.

The thought of something going wrong with _his_ work was nothing short of an insult. To assume that he would be so _careless_ as to make a _mistake_...stupid boy. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ boy.

He was getting angry now, he knew. And he shouldn't be.

_Just...think about something else._

Yes, something else. Some_where_ else. A happy place.

'_Let's go to a _happy_ place, Sasori no Danna, un!'_ Deidara chimed in his mind, _much_ too brightly.

Ugh.

No. Never.

The only response to Sasori's outburst was a stiffening in Gaara's shoulders. His expression kept up his blank stare, which may have been a form of reproach back at Sasori.

_You may not be able to control yourself, but _I _can._

He was distantly reminded of something his brother had said in response to someone else's similar outburst. 

_'What the hell's shoved up your ass?'_

Had he been more playful, and more likely to use profanities, he might have used that line on missing nin.

...If the work was fine, Sasori could be angry at him. Gaara would tolerate that. It's not as if that look of distaste was anything he was unused to. His eyes remained focused on Sasori's back, occasionally shifting to look at the working puppets.

Maybe he wanted him to leave.

Sasori couldn't help but be slightly irritated at the negligent effect his words and behavior had on the Jinchuuriki. After all, he was used to being around shinobi who responded – in one way or another – when he became vicious and caustic: Tobi would flee, Deidara would cringe, Kisame would keep a respectful distance while Itachi looked on with his empty, bored nonchalance..._something_. The flat look and silent treatment he was receiving was not something. It was _nothing_. The only hint that the boy had even _heard_ him was the way his shoulders became rigid, and that wasn't _nearly_ satisfying enough of a reaction.

Lost as he was in his peaking anger, the puppeteer hardly remembered why he was mad in the first place. He'd been bothered by some meaningless string of words the Kazekage spoken, which had triggered a reaction, which the boy had noticed and commented on, which had somehow become so incredibly _aggravating_...

His scowl darkened further.

This was pointless. Utterly pointless. It wasn't as though he could vent his anger with his body, in this room of glass and poison. Nor could he vent with his tongue, apparently, as words seemed to have little effect.

'_A happy place.'_

'_A happy place.'_

'_A _happy_ place.'_

The mantra sounded stupid in his head, spoken in his blonde partner's voice.

One fit of rage and one smashed puppet. The idiot had told him, over and over and over again, to go to a 'happy place' as if that were helpful. Which it wasn't. It only served to annoy him further. Later, he felt it proper to congratulate himself for his incredible self-restraint. Somehow, he'd managed to refrain from messily tearing apart the Earth Country rogue.

Oddly enough, he now found himself seriously considering this 'happy place'.

Where was it he was happiest?

_The workshop._

Sasori was oblivious to the easing of his stiff body at the mere thought of the _name_ of the place. His knit brow loosened, and the tightness of his lips softened. There was less jerkiness to his movements.

The _workshop_. But of course. Air that was sweet with the rich odor of sanded wood. Sawdust coating the smooth stone floor in a thick layer far softer than any carpet. Bottles of every shape and size filled with oils and varnish and, in some cases, water. Stained cloth rags dangling from hooks on the wall. All manners of tools glinting cleanly and beautifully atop a table, organized to the point of perfection. There were drills and mechanical saws, wheels and belts of glinting metal that spun and whirred, their steel teeth glinting. This was the puppet room, where the brunt of his creation took place. Where faulty, frail bodies (already cleaned of their previous contents) became perfect and everlasting. Here, there was only the clean-dirt dryness of artistry and puppets.

It was a place where he felt content, fulfilled, and perfectly at ease...Essentially, his 'happy place'.

With his mind drifting through that wonderful, stone-paneled room, his motions became graceful again. Slipping and dancing and delicate, as though his arms and hands and fingers moved to sweet, unheard music. He was no longer angry, because there was simply nothing to be angry at.

Thank you? It was meaningless.

The boy? A bystander who could scarcely be blamed for his ignorance.

The medicine? Time-consuming, but necessary. Nothing to worry about.

Sasori breathed deeply, wishing that the scent on the air was not the weak, bitter aroma of the poisons he brewed.

Even though he should be adept at such as skills as a shinobi, Gaara could hardly read into another's movements. Mainly because he had never had much of a reason to learn it, as it never meant much to him when he was younger whether the person he was about to kill felt terrified, angry, or remorseful about their abrupt fate. Nor were the moods of the people 'close' to him of any particular interest. So when he finally found himself wanting to become 'friends' with his siblings, teacher, and fellow villagers, he was at a loss, unable to sense what they were feeling. He couldn't judge their reactions, unless they were very, very explicit. And contained emotion rarely is.

So, in many ways, he was glad Sasori made blunt movements. Otherwise his anger and the subsequent fading of it would have been lost to him.

The regained grace of his movements, the regained control, was calming. 

Perhaps because the attention had been taken off of him.

And he fell back into a steadier silence, focusing more on the puppets than the one controlling them.

It was silent, for a while. Well, _nearly_ silent – there was still the soft creaking of wood, the hissing gurgle of the boiling water, clinking of glasses against hard fingers, the repetitive grinding of the pestles. At regular intervals, the tearing of cloth cut the relative quiet of the room. It was accompanied by the slosh of pouring water and the subsequent plink of a single droplet landing in the full bowl. The sounds were becoming even more familiar than they had been before, and there was a degree of comfort in that familiarity. Peace.

Which was why Sasori's voice was pleasantly smooth and conversational when he finally spoke. There was no enmity in his tone; not the slightest trace of defensiveness or wariness, not a shred of irritation...If anything, one might have been able to label the inflection of emotion in his words as bewilderment. He was genuinely curious. Even though he was loathe to break the somehow musical rhythm of his work with the foreign noise of his voice, he did. Because, though it no longer bothered him as it had before, he found himself wondering...just wondering...

"Why did you thank me?"

Gaara glanced him, pulled from his thoughts.

The puppets' work was more antidotes. It was help for his village. But not too long ago he had looked at them and nearly shuddered. Sasori's ability to make them turn from nightmarish creations to barely out of the ordinary humans was impressive, to say the least. After all, he had only seen his brother control three at a time, and it was a wonder how anyone could do it, maintaining more than one humanlike form. Gaara lacked the control to even craft strings.

Perhaps it took a special thought process to be able to control him. Yes. Gaara noted how Kankuro always thought ahead in a battle, always ready to replace himself with Karasu. That maneuver had gotten him out of many a situation. And Sasori seemed to always be planning ahead as well. Perhaps there was a mindset to it that he could not comprehend. He had been about to drift off, trying to remember Baki teaching his brother, when Sasori spoke up.

Initially, he was surprised that Sasori wanted to talk again. He parted his lips, but was quiet, thinking over the other's question.

It was a simple one, too. Why had he thanked him? What was there to think about?

"You were honest with me when I asked if your supplies for the antidote could attend to all of the villagers. I appreciated the gesture, so I thanked you." His words were entirely mechanical, but his voice spoke of an equal puzzlement. Would Sasori know of human gestures? Or was Sasori, like himself, unfamiliar with courtesies and kind gestures? After all, a few years ago, he wouldn't have been aware of the meaning of a 'thank you'.

"Hm." It was a meaningless, non-committal sound. An acknowledgement that he had heard and understood, but had nothing to offer himself. Pointless noise.

Sasori drifted into his thoughts without further questioning, contemplating the Kazekage's words. The answer made sense, really. More than he would've expected. Somehow, the concept had seemed more..._complex_ than it truly was, in his mind. But, no – all it was, in the end, was an expression of 'appreciation'. Gratitude, at a stretch. It didn't really _mean_ anything. Not really.

How comforting.

Glancing at the boy, he tilted his head speculatively.

If that was all it was, then...

"...Thank you for telling me."

He tested the words, turning them over in his mind and mouth experimentally. They didn't seem to be _nearly_ as painful as the rest of the Akatsuki's reluctance to say them made them out to be. By no stretch of the imagination were they particularly pleasing to say, but there was a certain degree of..._charm_ to them. Well, not charm, perhaps. But...something close. There was no proper word for it. However, as a foreign language is not exactly comfortable to speak, nor were they to him. Though he had a feeling that thanking people was a habit that grew gradually over time.

He'd look into it more in the future.

Gaara tilted his head slightly, wondering.

How strange. He did not change his expression at Sasori's...perhaps half-hearted thank you. No. Sasori would have to say something much more astonishing for that to happen.

But Gaara was puzzled. Sasori had been raised, hadn't he? He had parents, hadn't he? At least at one period in time, to tell him 'say thank you when someone does something nice for you'.

Gaara hadn't. Yashamaru hadn't gotten around to teaching him courtesies, and his father had more important things to teach him. He had gotten the action of thanking someone from watching and hearing others expressing their gratitude.

But perhaps Sasori had forgotten. Perhaps he hadn't been raised by a normal family. There would only be one way to figure out, of course.

"Gratitude is something out of the ordinary for you?"

Gaara would not allow himself to anticipate an answer. But...Sasori had taken his simple thank you in a different way than expected. Perhaps Sasori did value his words?

Sasori glanced at the boy, and then away.

For a brief moment – during which his mouth thinned into a stubborn line and his amber eyes narrowed – he considered ignoring the question. Outright refusing to answer. But silence, he knew, would be as good as announcing, 'yes, gratitude _is_ something out of the ordinary to me, because I had a fucked up childhood, a fucked up teen-hood, and an even _more_ fucked up adulthood'. Not exactly the impression he was seeking to give the Kazekage of Suna.

"...You could say that." He murmured. "I never really had a..._purpose_ for gratitude. Giving it or acknowledging it. In my line of work, you do what you're told and get what you get. Do something wrong, you get death. Do something right, you get power. Do something stupid, you get a kick in the ass..." He shrugged. "That's the way things go. There's no such thing as 'thank you' in the Akatsuki. I mean," he turned his eyes towards Gaara, his lip curling in a wry half-smile. "I didn't exactly see you jumping for joy when you met me. What makes you think the rest of the world is any different?"

_No one is ever happy to see one of us._

_No one is ever pleased by what we do._

_No one but us...and what is the point of thanking ourselves?_

Looking back to the gathering of puppets, he drifted over to the basin of antidote and extracted the black bottle from the folds of his cloak. He pulled out the stopper with his teeth and tilted it, carefully, until a single droplet spilled out. As it had time and time before.

Shoving the cork back in place with his mouth, blatantly unconcerned about the poisons, he swiped his sleeve over his lips and tucked the black fluid away.

Gaara would have rather not been reminded of their initial meeting, of him threatening the safety of Sunagakure for his own selfish desire to finally be rid of Shukaku.

But, too late. It seemed ironic, though.

"'Jumping for joy' is somewhat beyond me." He watched the poisons being mixed once more, his gaze on the black bottle before returning his attention to Sasori, "But...I may have been grateful if you had removed Shukaku from me."

No matter how much I am ashamed to admit it.

He wanted to hear a bit more of the Akatsuki, but even though he had gotten Sasori to talk more than expected, he knew that was pushing it. Still. They wanted the Bijuu, and even high ranked Shinobi such as Sasori were replaceable. That was all he needed to know to consider how dangerous the organization would be.

Sasori had to try very, very hard not to laugh.

"Maybe you would have. Of course, that's assuming that I was doing the removing, isn't it?" He shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have been the one responsible for that. Pain handles all of the bijuu extractions...he's the only one who can, so naturally he's the only one who _does_. That idiot Tobi tried it once, but he's a hopeless failure at _everything_..." He scowled at the thought of Zetsu's tagalong, clearly disgusted. "Either way, had you been in a thanking mood or not, I wouldn't have been any the wiser."

_Then there's the fact that you'd be a little too dead afterwards to be grateful for much of anything._

The corner of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a rather nasty grin that he just _barely_ managed to suppress.

Amusement seemed to be flickering up in the other...Barely, Gaara was able to read up on it. It seemed as though Sasori was inwardly snickering at his expense. Apparently, Gaara had chosen the wrong confessional phrase.

Note to self: do not tell the terrorist that you would like having your demon removed, lest he be more inclined to take up that offer if he gets the chance. 

"My mistake, then." at first, his tone was sour, even if his words were apologetic, "What makes the extraction so hard?"

It was tossed in to the conversation without a change in tone. Every statement prior, Gaara had not been expecting an answer, but this time he gambled and let a hope rise.

"I wouldn't know. I've never tried it." Sasori answered somewhat curtly, as though the answer to _that_ question was so painfully obvious that he saw no point in asking. "But – theoretically, of course – I suspect it's because it requires massive amounts of chakra and unparalleled chakra control. To detach only one soul from a body when two exist inside of it...It would be impossible for a shinobi with anything less. Which is why we can't do it, but he can. None of us can equal Pain in battle. Even our combined strength isn't _nearly_ enough..."

No, it wasn't. And there was no reason to test it, because they all _knew_. Pain had no rivals in the world. He was the leader of the Akatsuki, the god of the rain village, possessor of a Doujutsu more powerful than any other...And no one was stupid enough to even fantasize that they could go up against the Rinnegan and win. Not even Tobi.

Casting a glance at the boy, he wondered if he would catch the underlying hint in his words.

_You think _I'm_ bad?_

_Wait till you meet my master._

Gaara was silent, considering – not without some degree of alarm – the Akatsuki's words.

Did Sasori really consider his leader that powerful? He, an S-ranked missing nin, acknowledging a strength of that magnitude...

Did Konoha know anything of this 'Pain', or any other members? They only thing that Suna had been told about was the incident two years ago regarding a resurfacing of Uchiha Itachi and Hoshigaki Kisame, and even that was kept quiet, due to the Uchiha being involved.

For a moment he had to quiet his thoughts of protest that Konoha knew much, much more than they were letting on. It was a possibility, after all. Gaara could trust some of Konoha's shinobi, but the ones holding the information? Not so much.

Outside of the room, the noise was increasing. People's voices could be heard, and more than just the medic nin were walking around. It was not yet the hum of pleasant (Or not so much, considering it is a hospital) activity the building should be, but it was gaining.

Gaara looked over his shoulder at the door. Not considering leaving, just witnessing the noise.

Sasori's eyes flickered between the Kazekage and his puppets.

No response from the boy. Probably because he was busy digesting the overly excessive quantity of information he'd been fed. Overly excessive it indeed was, the puppeteer now realized, and was promptly irritated with himself. He really _ought_ to watch what he said more carefully.

Oh, well. No use crying over spilled milk. Pain was going to do something wretched to him when he returned – he diligently refused to consider it to be an _if_ – no matter what. Letting the boy know the name of exactly _who_ was going to do something wretched to him was hardly consequential, considering the rest. Letting the boy know that Sasori of the Red Sand was, ironically, nothing but a puppet himself to the Akatsuki leader was, similarly, harmless. All it did was paint the young Kazekage a very lovely picture of just how utterly ineffective even his _demon_ would be if the two of them came to blows. Besides...if Pain were _really_ bent on hiding his power from the world, he wouldn't have named himself god of the Rain Country.

Not that that was even marginally important right now. No. The important thing was the work at hand.

Speaking of which...

Sasori examined the bowl of once-upon-a-time poisons and gauged that, once again, it was time to bring out the thirsty needles.

A small twitch of his fingers, and two puppets gathered together handfuls of syringes, carting them over to the bowl; the pair promptly began to fill them. While they occupied a minimal percentage of his concentration, he dedicated his attention to the rest of the proceedings. Beakers tainted navy-blue simmered over their burners, while those that had been emptied were now being filled with water and venomous powder. The finished ones that had not yet been used to fill the bowl sat on the metal workbench, their surfaces clouded, violet mirrors that occasionally rippled when a puppet bumped into the table. The constant grind of the mortars and pestles was a muted grating on his ears, as necessary as it was annoying. Cloth tore, the sound of it somehow jarring...It seemed the only silent activity was that of the needle-bearing puppets, whose labor made no more noise than the moon as it crossed the night sky.

Everything was going _quite_ well.

With each passing dosage made and each brew boiled, Sasori was coming closer to fulfilling his part of the bargain. And Gaara was coming closer to the point he would be expected to fulfill his. In any case, Gaara could likely walk someone safely out of the village even if half the villagers were working against it. But open actions that would likely harm his village? He couldn't just go against his country in such an overtly treasonous manner. He did have to remind himself that what he wanted to do was treason already. Was it really acceptable just because the other would have saved the entirety of Suna? Not to the council, he could already guess that.

Even if he explained himself to the council, they would probably just commend him for outwitting Sasori, and then verbally reprehend him if he so much as suggested letting him go.

And then there was the issue with Chiyo...

There was really only one thing to be done about it, if he wanted to keep his word.

Sasori would have to leave immediately after delivering the last antidote. Upon report of no more villagers to attend to, Gaara would give him the notice to pack up and get the hell out while everyone was occupied. Sasori could walk out; Gaara knew he was capable of that.

A brief exhale, and he finally voiced his thoughts.

"Sasori. When I am told each villager has been administered the antidote, you may leave unescorted." 

Sasori was...probably already planning to do so. It just felt more defining to say it, finally.

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, though. They still had a long ways ahead of them.

Sasori, once again settled into the steady thrum of his work and turning filled syringes over in his hands, was quite unprepared for the statement – _promise­_ – made by the young Kazekage. Sure, they'd had an agreement of sorts...but it wasn't a solid one, and he'd been quite certain that there would be _some_ kind of catch to it. Besides making the antidotes, of course; that was a given. But a flat 'get done and get out' wasn't what he had expected. Not by a long shot.

So he froze, his statuesque pose breaking a moment later when he looked sharply at the boy.

_You can't_ possibly_ mean that. No analyzing of my behavior? No questioning? No..._nothing?

Impossible.

But, contrary to everything he'd anticipated in this venture, it seemed that it _was_ possible. Quite possible. Which was...shocking. Absolutely, completely, and totally _shocking_. The impossible _never_ happened. Ever. But for some reason, this wretched, dry country was some obscure exception to the long standing rule of _that which can not happen _will_ not happen_ _under any circumstances, foreseen or unforeseen_...Why? _Why?_ Was there a point to asking why, or should he accept the impossible and move on, keep going?

In the midst of his confused distraction and indecision, his right hand twitched.

It was a miniscule movement. A small, unnoticeable tremor of his index finger. Had it been anyone else, the entirely unconscious action would've mattered not at all. But it was _not_ anyone else. It was Sasori, master puppeteer, and for him, every finger controlled a puppet. _This _one happened to control the one that stood just behind and beside him, its wooden fingers curled around two glasses, both filled to their brims with noxious, vibrantly purple fluid.

When he twitched, so did it.

The marionette jerked, lurching out of its previous state of stillness. Its hands constricted around the poisons it held, and it was only when the sound of cracking, shattering glass split the air that Sasori looked over his shoulder at the puppet who stood there, wondering why on _earth_ it had come alive so suddenly when _he_ was supposed to be the only truly _living_ construction of metal and wood in the world...Why-?

The puppet, thrown off balance and no longer frozen in place due to its master's uncharacteristic lapse in control, simply fell forward as stiffly and heavily as the log it had been carved out of. Onto the red-haired, childlike rogue who controlled it, who had turned to catch it.

He _did_ catch it, of course. And for a moment he struggled to push it back up enough that he could simply flick his wrist and have it jump back into place itself.

"Goddamn piece of _sh_-" With a growl, he shoved it away, tugging it back into place with chakra strings so that it wouldn't fall backwards into the others and knock the lot of them down like bowling pins. Just the same, the four standing behind it inched away at the beck of his fingers.

He scowled at it for a moment, his lip curling, before raising his hand to brush himself off.

_Stupid. Distractions are stupid. Now there's glass and poison all over the floor, and-_

Even his thoughts stilled when his borrowed hand, brushing over his chest to clean it, clinked against something.

The cloth around that something was littered with sharp-edged, glossy pebbles, and everything was damp with spilled poison.

A slow, hesitant glance down was easily enough to be quite certain that a rather nasty-looking, gagged piece of one of the broken beakers was firmly embedded in his stomach, neatly sandwiched between two coils of the knife-tipped cable that had replaced his gut.

Naturally, he hadn't noticed until he'd touched it because he hadn't _felt_ it. And naturally, he wasn't worried about it because it neither would nor _could_ poison him...but the Kazekage wouldn't know that, would he?

His eyes slipped shut, and he groaned.

_Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit._

_Complications._

Initially, Gaara's guard fluttered from 'cautious' to 'anticipating an attack' at Sasori's abrupt stiffening and look. That was not the reaction he was expecting from Sasori, to put it lightly. It seemed every response he anticipated was turned right on its head. He was better off expecting nothing from the other, so as to not be shocked when a response came (It just went to show how pitifully poor his judge of character was. At least Sasori could be considered practice).

But his attention was taken entirely away by the sound of breaking glass.

Fear was not something that came readily to Gaara. He had seen enough, from others and especially from himself, to not be easily rattled.

The poison however, and all unpleasant memories attached, sent him nearly into a panic when he saw the liquid spill onto Sasori and the floor.

Was the air filled with the poison? Would it affect everyone in the building? Would the antidote have to be administered again?

...Was Sasori afflicted by his own poison!?

That instantly became the greatest fear in his mind, and he stumbled where he stood. Panic had finally broken through the calm in his face.

The poisoned people of Suna were doomed if the chemist creating their antidote was taken out.

It was then that he saw perhaps the most damning damage done.

Whatever question he was going to raise was quieted when he noticed the blade of glass jutting out from Sasori's stomach.

His lips were parted, as his mind raced. Just go fetch a medic. Just go fetch a medic. Don't even bother looking at him, just go—

And yet he couldn't help it, the useless human instinct of fascination towards wounds.

He was walking over to Sasori; he had to see the extent of the damage.

"I'll get a medic." He mumbled.

"_No._" Sasori snapped unthinkingly. Reaching down with his wooden hand, he gingerly fingered the glass jutting out of his gut; he didn't want to pull it out too roughly and get bits of it stuck in his works. That would be a bother to clean out later. "No medics."

Of course there could be no medics. The first thing they'd do is remove the cloth that sheltered the damage site from view, and he couldn't have _that_.

Had Gaara been comprised of noisier stuff, he might have yelled back at Sasori 'No medics? Are you _crazy_?!' The look he was giving the puppeteer might have spoken for him, however.

Although he was somewhat inclined to believe Sasori was in control of the situation, Sasori being with more medical experience than he, he still wanted to run out of the room and get a nurse. He knew that that part of the body was vulnerable, and people had probably died from lesser wounds than the one Sasori had just received. Poison outside the factor, even.

Pressing the fingers of his true hand to his forehead, Sasori squeezed his eyes shut.

It wasn't a show of pain – it was actually a display of inner turmoil, though anyone watching would've believed otherwise.

He had a bit of a..._problem_ on his hands. Explaining away the lack of effect poison would have on him was easy enough – a plausible reason would be having developed a resistance to the poison over the years. Even disregarding the lack of visible blood would've been simple enough if it had cut into his arms instead of his torso. After all, it was already obvious that he'd replaced at least one of his limbs, so why not others?

But a _stab_ wound to the _gut?_

He was _supposed_ to be burned by stomach acids, in extreme pain, and bleeding. Profusely.

_I'm fucked no matter how you look at it._

But he'd have to worry about that later, once he'd calmed down the approaching Kazekage and gotten this slice of melted sand out of his body.

"Just back up," He growled, jerking his head in an attempt to wave off the boy. "Give me a second..."

Sasori tried, without much success, to loosen the taught cords that had trapped the glass between them; there just wasn't enough space to do so without being obvious about it. So he'd have to just tug it out and deal with the cleaning aspect later.

Grimacing at the thought, his brows furrowing, he closed his eyes and yanked.

He felt it grating over the metal cords, and he heard the muffled sound of it cracking and breaking when he pulled (again, he winced at the thought of how much he'd have to do once he got home). The piece he pulled out, when it had torn its

way free of the thick black cloth, was slightly smaller due to it's most recent breaking and, interestingly enough, clean of poison. Most likely because it had all been wiped away or soaked up by his cloak.

...At least that would explain the lack of blood on the glass itself.

Better.

But it didn't change that fact that he was, indeed, fucked no matter how he looked at it.

Gaara didn't flinch at the sound the glass made as Sasori did his best to remove it. 

...Why was the glass giving such resistance if all it should be embedded in was flesh and organs?

"Some of it is still in there." Although his expression had changed, his tone was agonizingly flat. Which seemed like a joke along with the obvious he was pointing out.

"You need to be attended to." Part of the statement was to convince Sasori. The other part was for Sasori to explain why he wouldn't want medical attention. It was a wonder his intestines weren't slipping out from the wound.

"No." Sasori was beginning to feel like a broken record. Didn't he _just_ say that, what, _five_ minutes ago? If that. "I don't. I'll get the rest of it out later, when I'm done here." He muttered, swiping his hands over the front of his damp cloak. A few stray shards fell in a hard, glittering rain, tinkling against the floor.

Glancing between the dirtied puppet and the mess on the floor, he judiciously decided – with a disgusted curling of his lip – that he ought to put the filthy thing to work doing something _useful_. Such as cleaning. Admittedly, it was entirely his fault that it had become so messy, but he wasn't exactly prone to admitting to his mistakes; all he did was get rid of them as quickly and neatly as possible.

Sasori plucked at the puppets with his chakra strings, and nine went back to work while the tenth bent to clean up the puddle of poison and glass, collecting bits and pieces in its palm. Its hands were slowly darkening as the toxins sank into the wood, as were its forearms and, now, knees where it knelt on the floor. Soon, it would be a walking mass of soaked-up death. It would still function fine in the making of antidotes, but after that, they'd have to be _very_ careful with their disposal of it.

His mind drifted away from that puppet to another: himself.

He'd have to seriously downplay this one; no one needed to know he'd been stabbed in the stomach with broken glass without consequence. Particularly not the medics, because guess who's grandmother was currently in _charge_ of said group?

He _really_ didn't need those kinds of complications.

For a while, Gaara stood, still watching the puppeteer brush himself off and act as if nothing had happened. 

The shock on his face faded, slightly, and he seemed to be chewing on his lip. Gears turning in the head, no doubt. Gaara was thinking hard, trying puzzle out what had just happened. 

Sasori had shrugged the whole thing off. And there was no blood anywhere... 

Perhaps he was just overreacting, and had underestimated Sasori.

A very plausible explanation finally entered his head, and he even relaxed a notch.

"Are you wearing armor under that?" That seemed to be the case. It explained why the glass had been so difficult to remove, and why Sasori hadn't been harmed.

Sasori wasn't about to look _this_ gift horse in the mouth.

"Of course." He snapped, making a great show of indignant irritation. Scowling darkly at the boy, as though his abilities as an S-rank criminal had been brought into question, he flicked away yet another shard of glass. The creaks of the joints of the puppets – already having resumed their prior activities – became louder as they went about their work with rising vigor, apparently in response to their master's 'anger'...Nerves was more appropriate a term, though he didn't plan on letting _anyone_ know that.

He glanced down when a shard slipped between the fingers of the bowed puppet and struck the floor, making a sour face at it before returning his attention (at least, _part_ of his attention) to the Kazekage.

"You can't honestly think that I would be a member of the Akatsuki if a piece of broken _glass_ stuck in an inanimate _log_ could put an end to me." He scoffed. "If it were _that_ easy, I'd have died long ago."

_Died long ago? He makes it sound as if he's been living a long time._

But then Gaara recalled that, indeed, Sasori had been living for a while. He just didn't look it. 

A logical explanation for the lack of a wound. No harm done to the chemist. Gaara was pacified with that knowledge. However, there was still an issue to be had, and it was currently being cleaned off of the floor. 

"Will the poison be of any harm to the people in this building?" He asked, trotting a bit backwards to stand in the spot he had been originally waiting.

After all, in gas form, it had been quite effective. Would the properties hold the same as the liquid began to evaporate?

Sasori shook his head, invisibly relieved that his lie had been so easily swallowed.

"It's a little bit different from what you're used to." He muttered dryly. "The fluid evaporates, yes, but the majority of the poison stays behind – in the end, it's just powder and water. The fumes might make you lightheaded if you breathe them in for a few hours, and your fine motor skills may be slightly impaired, but it's not dangerous. And the effects are temporary. A day at the most, with extended exposure."

That was what made the gas clouds such a trial to make – the fact that he couldn't simply _evaporate_ the poison. If it were that easy, the use of toxic clouds would be much more widespread, he was sure. As it was, he remained one of the select few.

"In short, no one in your country needs to worry about the purple puddle on the floor." He remarked, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

_Sounds pretty silly put that way, doesn't it?_

How peculiar. Forms of the poison could apparently range from 'practically harmless' to 'crippling'. 

He did not want to know what would happen if one were to _swallow_ any of it. 

Sasori was...mildly agitating in his way of taunting him. Mildly, as Gaara could take teasing without much fuss. It was slightly jarring to receive it, though. Especially from someone outside of his immediate family and from someone older than he. But then again, years of surviving and gaining power had granted Sasori the rights to be arrogant. Still. Three years ago and he wouldn't have dreamed of anyone teasing him. After all, they may have been signing a death warrant in the act.

He wouldn't return any snark back at Sasori. He was capable of it, arguably, but any insult out of his mouth would probably come off as deadpan, at most.

"Good to know." He managed, nodding his head slightly, "Are any more syringes complete?" 

After all, Sasori had been filling them before his puppet had an 'accident'.

"Yeah," The puppets had been readying more before and throughout their brief conversation, and he motioned to one of them to gather together a prodigious armful. Which it did, somehow managing to _not _drop them as it made its way over to the Kazekage. A second, after sucking up the last of the antidote with a needle, followed suit with its own load.

Gaara examined the batch of needles appreciatively.

Wow. Sasori had been generous with this amount. He couldn't count it from were he stood, but he knew that one, Suna would be placed much further ahead in its curing, and two, he would not be able to carry it by himself.

With a gesture that imitated (although not intentionally) the puppeteer before him, Gaara commanded two masses of sand to draw forth from their place outside the room and cushion the sets of needles. 

Once more, Gaara wondered if Sasori was thinking of how he was going to leave. But this time he wouldn't voice it, lest the puppets break another, less benign set of glassware. 

With a nod, he drew both sets of sand and needles away, and opened the door to leave.

**Lightining Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	9. Trust

Stealth.

Not a big Sabaku no Gaara thing. And yet, he was still inclined to go snooping around corners, trying to avoid being spotted by the villagers who were all now rather awake, and rather aware.

Every time he was spotted, it was the same thing over and over again. One person would see him, shout "Kazekage-sama!", and he'd have to stop pretending he didn't want to be found (not yet, at least) and face them. But by that time, everyone else would have heard the cry of "Kazekage-sama!", look over and see him too. So in a matter of minutes he would be praying that neither Baki nor Kankuro nor any of the council would see him. After all, it was a very compromising position being practically pretzeled in a giant...group hug. Not only that, but even when the administering of the antidote was going successfully, he still could not face his brother or his teacher.

The one good thing that came out of everyone being active and wanting to show their 'relief' at him returning and 'being so strong in a crisis' was that he never really had to carry any of the syringes. Everyone else offered to carry them for him. (Although in the ensuing excitement, someone nearly injected themselves, which could have been disastrous if Gaara hadn't intervened with his sand)

Occasionally, he would return to the workroom Sasori had temporarily taken residence in in quite a rush, with hair ruffled and clothing in a mess. But as soon as he shut the door he regained his composure and fixed his hair.

But eventually the time came when the nurse stopped him as he was about to leave to return to Sasori.

"Kazekage-sama. We've double checked the population. With that last set of dosages, everyone's been cured."

And for a moment, he allowed everyone to greet him, express their worry and their gratitude, even if he in no way deserved it.

Finally. The whole ordeal was over.

(Admittedly, no one had shown him a casualty report, but no doubt he would be informed of that soon enough.)

Concocting some excuse to detract from the mob's attention, Gaara entered the medical room unattended, and thankful for it. He also took a precaution to gather a nice amount of sand as he entered. He had a plan coming along, and someone to smuggle out of a village.

He shut the door behind him once more, in his usual pattern. The loud din of a populated building was muffled.

"Can you guess?" He sounded as if he was playing a game with a toddler, but really. Everything outside the room spoke for itself.

"I might be able to." The puppeteer admitted, slumping against the wall behind him less in exhaustion and more in relief.

_It's over._

_Finally, I can get _out_ of here._

It had been a long two days. Yesterday – that of his capture – and today had been filled with constant brewing of venomous chemicals. So had the night in between the two, the darkness cut by harsh fluorescent lights that cast their blank, unflattering glow over the room. They'd gone through syringes with increasing speed as the hours progressed, and production doubled when a second glass bowl was dragged onto the scene. The tenth puppet, after a brief and careful scrub-down by an unoccupied nurse, was put back into commission. For about five minutes, he had to actually _think_ about moving it. Which was something of a novelty, because eventually, Sasori's movements had become as thoughtless and robotic as those of his puppets. The motions required no thought at all, and everything had only grown more and more monotonous as the hours passed.

They'd churned out the antidotes for endless, empty hours. Even the scant conversations he'd been having with the Kazekage had ceased.

But now it was over.

The room was thick with the acrid scent of singed metal, and the sharper reek of the vapors that had gathered there over the hours. As it turned out, the puddle of spilled poison from his little 'accident' was not to be the last – a discovery made when the thumb of one puppet simply cracked off and fell to the floor, along with its load. But even without that spill and the evaporation of fluid that followed, the humidity in the room was oppressive; naturally, what with the constant boiling of water. Droplets clung to the light fixtures on the ceiling and left damp, shining trails on the walls, giving the whole room a peculiar glisten that seemed only stranger in Suna. One coming in from the hallway might feel they'd entered someplace alien, with the lumbering shapes of the damp puppets and the constant gleam of glassware and needles.

Sasori showed less signs of wear than the room he had used. His clothes and hair were similarly damp, and the stain of poison on his cloak had darkened. His skin, much like the walls, was lined where water had gathered and dripped on it (though, unlike most people, _all_ of the fluid came from the room and _none_ from perspiring). There was little more than a pinch of poison herbs left in his possession, and the black bottle he'd concealed in his cloak was going on empty. His ceaseless energy had finally begun to spiral down into weariness.

But it didn't matter now, because it was all over.

Running his wooden hand through his thick red hair, swiping it away from the skin it had begun to stick to, he closed his eyes and sighed.

How lucky Gaara had been, not hearing many of the agonized sounds that the shinobi of the village made as they went unattended. He had just been in and out of the rooms. How could he have heard? 

Still. All the Shinobi were cured now. Some still lay in their cots, trying to recover their energy, while others teetered around to find a place to eat. 

Definitely not in the position to attack anyone. Especially their Kazekage.

It seemed Shinobi were more affected than the noncombatants of his village. But he could ponder that later. He still had an agreement to fulfill. 

And this time, he didn't bother with expressing his gratitude to Sasori. Vocally, it would be a waste of time. He would show him all the thanks in the world if he pulled this off.

The sand rose from its position on the ground, forming into some bipedal creature before becoming more defined and colored. In a matter of seconds another young Kazekage was standing in the room.

"There's an exit nearby. We go left from that door, take another left, and then there will be a door for us to use." From then on, they could walk through Suna with little risk of being seen. Hell, they could take a rooftop route and reduce that risk to nearly zero. "I have I diversion prepared."

Deceiving his own villagers. How...despicable.

And with that, the sand clone opened the door, and left the room. 

Outside, it was greeted by some villagers, and it reacted the way its original would. Silently, with the occasional nod. 

The hallway outside was promptly cleared.

Sasori nodded his understanding to the Kazekage, casting a glance at the borrowed team of puppets.

He'd worked with them for hours, coming to learn the individual quirks of each one – their faults, their strengths, their physically identifying traits. Nearly two days of tugging at their strings, and he'd grown accustomed to the gritty screech of their turning joints, the jerky roughness of their movements becoming routine. The events of the time he'd spent with them were etched into the wood in the forms of burns and poison stains and other, less noticeable things. By now, he knew them as well as his own puppets.

Fisting his hands, he cut the strings that bound them to him, and watched with complete satisfaction as their bodies went limp. One slumped against the wall, another falling heavily onto the steel table while the rest simply collapsed where they stood. Their crumpled limbs skidded and clacked hollowly over the flooring.

Their former puppeteer flexed his fingers, glad to be rid of them and uncaring of what might be done with them now.

Looking over his shoulder at the sound of clattering wood, Gaara allowed himself a moment of puzzlement at Sasori's detachment (no pun intended) towards the puppets he had released. Not that he was expecting the nuke-nin to hold any affection towards then. Still, Sasori had many a mystery, none that would likely be solved by him. After all, Sasori would be leaving soon.

As if hearing his thoughts, Sasori made a vague gesture at the door. "Alright. Lead the way, Kazekage-_sama_."

In a way, he was poking fun at the Jinchuuriki, imitating the villagers outside as they uttered the title that seemed to have replaced his name. The dripping admiration was accented and dramatized, and quite obviously false...But, for a change, there was no venom in his tone.

Gracefully, Gaara disregarded Sasori's tease. And in that moment, he rushed forward with silent footsteps, turning left and verily expecting Sasori to follow.

The hallway was oddly empty around the area; the direction they were heading seemed to slip into the inner guts of the facility. The maintenance area.

Another left, and the hallway led to a rumbling room filled with pipes that dripped occasionally. A light at the back of the room indicated a door.

Upon catching sight of that distant light, which outlined the shape of a distant door, the corner of Sasori's mouth lifted in a half-smile. That door led to the outside of this increasingly hellish hospital. Outside, there was the village. If the village was as quiet as the halls they'd passed through, it would be a quick and uneventful dash over the rooftops to the high, surrounding wall. After that, a sprint over open desert. Then, he would be beyond the border of the Wind Country and all of the despicable wretchedness it contained.

Freedom wasn't far off for him.

It had been a long, _long_ three days.

In the beginning, it had been a struggle to find an antidote that would work – something useful, something that didn't wear off, and something that wouldn't become less and less effective with every use. She'd gone through every herb she knew and every procedure she could imagine, barely above the panic of the surrounding medics. Nothing even _began_ to clear her village of the poison that had so suddenly and violently gripped it.

The second day was better. People began to recover as proper antidotes were administered; many were capable of returning to their homes, all of them ravenously hungry. Her medics were in pristine condition, clean of the energy-sapping toxins. All of it was good...but the cause of it was not. In fact, she considered the effect to be only _barely_ good enough to tolerate the cause. Barely.

By the third day, her lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll on her. Her incessant work was taxing, and her body and mind were both wearied to the point of numbness. But the village was healing – almost, it was healed. And the relief was tremendous. People were healthy again...thanks to the damnable cause. Which she planned to go see the _moment_ she received word that there was no more healing to be done.

Chiyo leaned against the wall, the smooth tiling cool against her sweat-slickened, heated skin. Her hair stuck to her forehead in sticky, damp clumps, and her raspy breathing was labored. Her curled, bony hands trembled with fatigue. The robes she wore were badly stained with a mix of blood, other bodily fluids, and the useless medicines she'd brewed; the proper antidote had been handled with so much care that not a drop of it had gone to waste on spills.

"Ch-Chiyo baa-sama?" A soft voice asked gently, and a hand on her shoulder encouraged the old woman to open one of her eyes. Just so the young man bothering her would know that his elder was still alive.

"What do you want?" She said it too snappishly, but she cared not at all – she was tired, and old, and just an irritable sort of person all around. He neither needed nor deserved her courtesy. After all, he'd probably just come over here to bug her because she'd looked to be on the brink of death, slouched over in the corner as she was.

"You asked to be informed when everyone was cured," He mumbled, looking down, shuffling his feet, and sounding rather hurt by her tone.

"And are they?" She inquired sharply, pushing away from the wall and brushing past him before he even answered, knowing what he would tell her when he did.

"Yes, they- Chiyo baa-sama, where are you _going_—?"

She was already gone, heading down the now empty halls to room 501.

It was a brief venture. She'd decided to position herself in the same hallway as her grandson, so that she would know if he went to the exit, of which there was only one. Reachable only by passing her door. Because she had heard no commotion indicating his passage, he must still be in his assigned room.

Already, she was going over what to say to him in her head.

'_Sasori, where have you been?'_

'_Why did you come back, Sasori?'_

'_I see you've been captured, Sasori. By a boy, no less.'_

'_Sasori?'_

'_Is that really you?'_

There were so many things to say. So many things to ask. And she'd have her chance to do it all, now. Because the door was in front of her, the room behind it silent but (she was sure) not empty.

Closing her eyes, she took a steadying breath and pushed her way in, opening her mouth and her eyes with a sharp comment hot on her lips—

—and froze, the breath she'd taken to speak stolen from her lungs.

_What?_

The room had plenty in it, as she had expected. It was filled with glass and poison and puppets, water dripping down the walls...But it may as well have been empty. The one person she had been looking for was, somehow, not there. But he had _been_ there – that was evidenced by the ten wooden corpses strewn around the room. She was one of the few who could command more than three at a time, and she knew that _she_ hadn't been the master of these. It _had_ to have been him.

_But...where else could he...? Where...?_

_How...?_

She staggered back, out of the room. Impossible. _Impossible_. He couldn't just disappear, so—

Her head snapped around, and her eyes narrowed on the hallway before her. The exit she had – stupidly – not taken account of. Sasori wouldn't know about it on his own, of course, but if he had help...

_Sasori._

Her lip curled, and she began to follow the path she was now certain her grandson had taken.

The outside was as sunny as usual. There were about three weeks in the year where Suna got cloudy, and this day was not part of them. Gaara was tempted to relax entered into such a familiar landscape. He knew the village like the back of his hand and could navigate through the most unoccupied regions of it with the greatest of ease.

But then, shouldn't Sasori have some skill with navigating through the village? This had been his home once, and unlike the cities outside hidden villages, Suna rarely ever had to develop new sections of town.

Either way, once outside the building, Gaara leaped up, and found himself looking over the familiar skyline of his village at midday. He paused for half a second for Sasori to jump beside him as well before continuing across the shingles of the long building.

There were approximately 500 meters between the two of them and the gate. That would surely be the most difficult to deal with, unless Sasori scaled and jumped off the great walls around the village. Then he could bypass the guard completely.

Rushing in a burst of speed, he leapt over the gap between the two buildings.

Everyone was out dining or still in the building. It was doubtful anyone would be lingering around to see them.

Sasori followed the Kazekage in silence, his eyes drifting over the village that surrounded him.

It really hadn't changed much, physically, since he'd left. The same buildings were in the same places, for the most part. The main streets still led where they used to lead, and the side roads seemed to be as numerous now as they were then. The primary difference had nothing to do with construction...it was what was _inside_. Nothing was immediately obvious; all of the changes were fairly small, and would've been unnoticeable to an outsider – what used to be a supply shop was now a restaurant, for one.

Even with those subtle differences, it was all too familiar for comfort, and he suspected the only reason he'd been so at ease in the hospital was that he had spent so little time in the medical areas of his village that there were no memories to be associated with them. That, combined with the distraction of the puppets, kept him busy and distracted from thoughts of 'home'.

He turned his eyes away from the streets below, dedicating his attention to following his captor-conspirator as he leapt from one building to the next.

He was unaware of the door that creaked open on the building they were quickly leaving behind, and therefore completely oblivious to the grey-haired old woman who, upon spotting the red-haired pair, froze yet again. For a moment she simply stared, bewildered. Then, she scrambled onto the rooftop herself. Her features were contorted in a mixture of disbelief and fury, her hands trembling with something other than weariness. The thoughts than ran through her mind (if the puppeteer had been able to hear them) would've sent the most battle-hardened, callous of shinobi running for their lives.

"_Sasori_..." She hissed between clenched teeth, her hands curling into fists.

With that, she leapt forward with strength and speed she shouldn't have had at this point – fueled purely by force of anger and will – and pursued them, glaring her hatred at the back of her long-gone grandson.

Gaara was oblivious to her approach, busy scouting out the surrounding village.

No one in the streets in front of them, no one in the streets around them. He reduced his chakra towards his feet, becoming less concerned about muffling his footsteps. It almost made him irritable to see his village so empty. But then again, he often traveled the village at night, and it was near equally quiet.

He reduced his rate a few strides, looking over his shoulder to make sure Sasori was still following. It was then and only then that he saw a figure a few buildings behind them.

At first he thought he was seeing things, as their clothing blended into the more earthly tones of the buildings.

Both feet reached the ground, and he stopped and turned fully around.

Still he was unable to recognize the figure...but the type of clothing was remarkably familiar.

And it did nothing but panic him. Immediately (and rightfully) he assumed that they were following them.

Sasori had noticed the slowing of the Kazekage without paying it much mind – all it meant was that they could move at a more leisurely pace, without having to worry about disguising their presence as much as they had before. It was something a relief, and the nervous stiffness of his shoulders eased. When the boy stopped unexpectedly, however, what little tenseness had left him returned with a vengeance. The Jinchuuriki seemed to be looking at something behind them...something that was cause for concern, judging by the look that flashed over his face.

Skidding to a stop beside his temporary companion, his brows furrowing, Sasori looked over his shoulder at the object of sudden worry.

The sound he made was something between choking and gasping as he sucked in air sharply, and he took a step back, his brown eyes widening in shock. His hands, much like hers, curled into taught fists, his arms rigid at his sides. For a moment, he considered making a break for it, running for the walls and refusing to stop until the village was out of sight and out of mind...

Then the horror faded out his eyes, and he returned her glare.

Of course _she_ was here. The fucking old hag had an irksome tendency to be everywhere she was wanted the least.

_Hey there, granny._ He growled in his mind, his lips pulling back in a snarl. _Here to stir up some dust?_

Chiyo, fast approaching, returned the sentiment with a bitter grimace of her own.

_Still have a lot to learn about avoiding relatives, brat._

She wasn't near enough, yet, to see the undeniable youth of her grandson's features. The expression on his face aged him enough that – from a distance – he could be mistaken as looking his years.

Gaara had been moving in a slow retreat until Sasori came to a stop next to him. The sudden exclaiming noise that his companion made was unsettling, to say the least, along with the nervous shuffle backwards that they both seemed to perform at the same time. Gaara's eyes were wide, and his hair seemed to be getting ruffled. But even with that anxiety, Gaara did not know who was pursuing them.

Until he finally allowed Sasori's reaction to kick his memory into gear. He had met the woman two days ago.

Wait. Oh no. 

That was Sasori's _grandmother_. 

Instantly, he recalled the bad blood between them, Sasori throwing a fit over her when he had been captured, and equally Chiyo's expression when being informed that her grandson was in the village. As if to confirm his thoughts, Sasori's posture changed from that of fear to that of aggression. 

Suddenly, Gaara felt as if he were the third wheel in this little party, and that maybe he should just excuse himself and avoid the embarrassment.

However, the name Chiyo bellowed in her grating, broken voice was, surprisingly, _not_ that of her grandson.

"GAA_RA!_" She accented the last syllable of his name with a particularly harsh note, the pitch rising shrilly. Her dark eyes – now visible as she launched herself over another gap in the buildings, approaching the stilled pair – were narrowed in fury that no proper grandmother ought to possess (which was a small explanation in itself of the nature of Sasori's family life).

She was going to _murder_ him. Messily.

She was going to murder _both_ of them.

And Sasori, standing beside the boy she was addressing with such malevolence, could tell. She was livid enough to draw blood and rip off limbs...He knew the feeling, and returned it with a low growl.

"IF YOU DON'T HAVE A _DAMN_ GOOD EXPLAINATION FOR THIS, I'M TAKING HIS HEAD _AND_ YOURS," Chiyo thundered, oddly fearsome for someone so ancient. The volume she managed was positively incredible, and _quite_ unexpected from a withered old prune such as herself; most would've thought her to have a weak, breathy sort of voice. Apparently, she could challenge lions with the fierceness of her roar. "AND THE COUNCIL CAN GO TO _HELL_."

If Gaara wasn't behaving like a submissive dog before, he was certainly acting so now. It took a decent amount of control not to shrink back and run from the soon to be attacking woman. And Chiyo was simply breathing out killer intent.

It was only Sasori's presence at his side that probably prevented it.

"I think she intends to kill us." He managed to say through the shock in his system.

"Go and run." It was the best plan he could develop at the moment. He didn't much know what else to do, as Sasori still needed to leave, and Chiyo's screams would likely attract the attention of everyone in the village if she kept it up.

He did not know if he could fight Sasori's grandmother, but...he could stall her, he was certain of that. After all, if she directed her killer intent towards him, Sasori had a chance.

Sasori turned his glare upon the Jinchuuriki.

"As if I would give her the gratification of seeing me flee for my life." He hissed, clearly offended that the boy thought he would willingly do something as undignified as running when faced by his _grandmother_. Glancing back at her, he bared his teeth in grimace easily as hateful as hers. The family resemblance was stunning. "I'd sooner _die_." He spat acidly.

A light flare of anger broke through Gaara's thoughts at the snippy response Sasori had given him. Oh. He chose now of all times to care about pride. Funny how he would submit to curing all of Sunagakure in exchange for a chance at living, but refused to GO when the opportunity was right there, because of some pride connected with his grandmother.

"Sooner die?" He hissed back, resisting another urge to choose between fight or flight, "What exactly do you think is going to happen if you don't run?"

Tch. It really wasn't his concern if Sasori chose to stay and died in the midst of combat (which he was unarmed for) with his old granny. Gaara had attempted to escort him out, as he agreed. It honestly wouldn't be his fault if Sasori got captured or killed after that.

In fact, without much further thought, Gaara gave another leap to a nearby building, distancing himself from both Chiyo and the Akasuna quarrel unfolding before him.

Chiyo could not have been more pleased (or more infuriated) when the son of her son stood his ground, simmering anger not unlike her own palpable even at a distance.

Gaara was quite right in his deduction...she did indeed have every intent of dismembering them and scattering the remains all over Suna, so that everyone would know what had become of the Fifth and the rogue who had spent his last few hours bringing them all back to life. She'd shriek at the council until they saw the reason _why_ she had considered it prudent to violently murder the child of the Fourth Kazekage. She'd shriek at the people until they agreed she had done rightly by them, too. Because right now, she was hell-bent on _killing_ them as slowly and painfully as she possibly—

Chiyo – landing on the rooftop one leap away from theirs – stumbled. Her face seemed to simultaneously slacken and contort, then morph again as a blank, stricken look replaced everything that had come before it.

Much as it had when she'd entered the empty work room, her mind produced only one word:

_What?_

Her hands, now limp, lifted hesitantly. One reached for the bunched cloth that wound around her neck and shoulders, palm pressing into the fabric that hung loosely at the center of her chest. The other extended towards the pair, as though she reached for them...but it wasn't _them_ she reached for, it was _him_. The boy. The _child_.

He hadn't changed at all.

_But...how...?_

_How is he still-?_

His heavily lashed eyes and soft, round face. The tousled scarlet hair that she had often tried – with little success – to tame with a comb. His lips, though pulled back in a snarl, had the same delicate curve that she remembered. His stature was no greater than when he had left. Somehow, he was _still her grandson_.

_It can't be. It's impossible._

But she wanted so badly to believe it.

"Sa...Sasori...?" There was no anger or bravado left in her tone – just a hollow, begging hope. Maybe, just maybe, he was still the boy she remembered. Maybe he wasn't the destructive, wretched criminal she had been so afraid he would be...

The expression on his face smoothed, ever so slightly. Then it faded, replaced by a silent, searching sort of look she simply could _not_ consider to be calculating. Then he spoke, and though the timbre of his voice was slightly deeper than she remembered, it was _still _his voice.

"Chiyo baa-sama." He murmured, and the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips failed to reach his eyes.

She pretended that it was otherwise.

Gaara watched, intrigued and confused.

Abruptly, the entire mood of the encounter changed. In a blink of an eye, Chiyo's fury had faded, and even Sasori seemed to have relaxed. The situation now seemed like that of a surprising reunion rather than some vengeful bloodfest about to occur.

And now, even more so, Gaara felt really out of place.

Sasori's attention was focused on the grey-haired woman before him.

She, unlike him, had clearly aged. The wrinkles on her face were deeper, and there were more of them than he recalled. They lined her mouth and the corners of her eyes, wilting her lips till they puckered, loosening her skin so that it sagged off of her cheeks and chin. There were bags under her eyes that had not been there when he left, and her skin was darkened by liver spots. Her body seemed smaller and frailer, and her shriveled hands were evidence that her face was not the only thing that had changed. The style of dress, however, was exactly the same.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.

Chiyo could only stare at her grandson, not quite sure what to believe.

"How many years was it again...?" He lifted a finger to tap his chin, as though speculating over the number. If she wasn't going to respond, he'd fill her silence with his _own_ voice. "Twenty, I think...Yes, it _has_ been twenty. Hm. I didn't even notice..."

"Why..." Chiyo interrupted him, her dark eyes searching his, trying to see past the flippant, cool expression on his face. "Why haven't you...changed, Sasori?" She swallowed thickly, her voice rough. "It's been...such a long time since-"

"Twenty years is not a long time, Chiyo baa-sama." _Not for me, anyways. Not anymore._ "And you of all people should know that some things never change."

"You _should_ look different." She insisted, taking a step forward. "You should look _older_. How are you still-? _Why_ are you-?"

"_That_," His voice was suddenly cold, his eyes narrowed. "Is none of your business, granny."

The silence stretched between them, and whatever hint of lightness might've been there was replaced with hard frigidity. They were stiff, still, all meager sense of hope and reunion replaced by stoniness and passionless loathing. The air around them was icy despite the desert heat.

Chiyo glared at her grandson, and he glared right back.

Gaara watched.

The exchange was...not very informative. But what business was this to him? It wasn't, really. Yes, Sasori did look very young for a guy who was supposed to be forty. Maybe he had a genjutsu on him. Gaara had heard of such techniques, (including one disturbing case where an assassin had disguised himself a feudal lord's wife for two months before finally killing his target) so it wasn't entirely implausible. Why was Chiyo so confused?

But the it ended with some cold expression from Sasori, and attention was once again placed on the young Kazekage when the old woman cast him a glance.

"Gaara," She growled, his gaze flicking between him and Sasori. "Capture him. Now. And once you do, put him in a containment cell."

She had a feeling that Shukaku's vessel was assisting the rogue puppeteer. However, she was going to give him a chance to redeem himself now. If he refused...well, she'd have _quite_ a bit to say about _that_.

Gaara looked back at Chiyo, trying not to look as ruffled as he felt in that moment.

Capture Sasori?

He looked over to the younger puppeteer.

He had a lot to consider with that stony order.

Well, he could just ignore it; act like he hadn't heard it. Gaara had deceived villagers already today. But not once had he ever gone against one so much as to disregard their wishes and betray them to their faces. He still did not want to turn on them. Not completely. Hypocritical? Yes. But why betray his village like this? For the sake of a missing nin who would probably stab him in the back if he had a weapon? The answer to Chiyo's ultimatum should have been obvious...but, looking at Sasori, he still paused.

Gaara had promised the other he would help him escape. He had planned on it. And now, he was going against his word.

_I'm sorry, Sasori. You were just doing your job when you poisoned the village, but now I'm doing mine._

Sand shot out from the ground around them, not too roughly, but powerfully enough to state his intentions. He did not expect much of a struggle. Sasori was virtually helpless.

The expression on Sasori's face changed three consecutive times in the space of a moment. The icy glare he'd been giving his grandmother morphed into a gloating smirk when he heard her order to the Kazekage. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when the boy did absolutely nothing. They were in cahoots, after all. Partners in crime. The Jinchuuriki had made him a deal, a promise, and the puppeteer was confident he wouldn't break it just because some old bag _told_ him to. Of course not.

When the sand rose around him, smoothly but surely, the smugness was quickly replaced by shocked disbelief not unlike that Chiyo had displayed earlier when she got a good look at her grandson. He was bewildered, bemused, utterly thrown off. _Surely_ it was just some sort of _façade_ of capture. _Surely_ he didn't mean to go back on his _word_ and-

'_Capture him. Now. And once you do, put him in a containment cell.'_

Sasori's features contorted again – this time in anger. Fury at this unprecedented betrayal, rage that he should be so close to freedom only to be returned to confinement. It was a fierce, scalding emotion that was easily filled with as much (if not more) violent hatred as Chiyo on her initial approach.

He was going to _murder_ him. Messily.

He was going to murder _both_ of them.

The desire to rip them apart was intense. The yearning for their dying screams was cutting. The burning thirst to see them both trying to hold their own intestines inside of them was nearly unbearable.

...If only because, in his current state, he couldn't even begin to hope to bring about such a satisfying end to them.

All he could do was project his blood-hunger to the boy who had so readily turned on him, the child-like face twisted in disgust. He was furious. _Furious_.

"_Kazekage_..." The low hiss, little more than a rush of air between his clenched teeth, was tainted with bitter malice.

_How dare you._

_How DARE YOU._

Killer intent. Shinobi, especially those that weren't keen on controlling their emotions, often displayed it. At times in his past, Gaara was known for displaying a continuous and indiscriminate killer intent. It had even been directed at himself a few times (albeit rarely), and it was one of the few feelings that were almost impossible to misinterpret.

And Sasori was being quite blunt in his projection of it.

Gaara did not react to his wordless loathing. He merely stared back in indifference.

He hadn't wanted any member of Suna to witness his betrayal. Not because of any feelings of regret or shame such a scene would bring him—although that was part of it. No. Rather, it was because he knew that he would falter in his promise to Sasori and be unable to continue.

He still valued his village's feelings towards him more than any promise towards a criminal.

As for Chiyo? It wouldn't have mattered if it were Chiyo, or Baki, or some merchant he barely knew. He would still be going against Sasori like he was now.

Not to say that he felt no regret about his betrayal against the puppeteer. He had trusted Sasori. And Sasori, judging by his reaction, had trusted him.

Still. It was all a matter of values.

In an unintentional mimicry of Sasori's original capture, two amorphous masses of sand moved in to wrap around Sasori's limbs and torso. Gaara directed them with simple movements of one hand, all the while still looking towards Sasori's face.

Sasori, however desperate he was to escape, knew a lost cause when he saw one. It would be absolutely useless to try to escape the boy in the middle of a _desert_. Should he somehow manage to avoid this initial onslaught, he still had to make it to the gate. Should he somehow make it to the gate, there was still the whole goddamned _country_ to get past. And even _then_, the Jinchuuriki could pursue him. There was no doubt that he would be outrun by the bijuu vessel, should he decide to ride upon a wave of sand.

There was, quite simply, no point. No point at all.

So he settled for standing still while the sand neatly cocooned him, his eyes locked onto his conspirator-gone-captor. Or was it captor-gone-conspirator-gone-captor? Or was it just plain _captor?_ Who knew – perhaps he had planned the whole thing. However unlikely the chance, it was a possibility to consider. And he would consider it.

Because, apparently, he'd be having an awful lot of time on his hands to do so.

Chiyo, naturally, could not have been happier. Though she still harbored her little suspicions about the intentions of the Kazekage, it seemed that he had not completely turned his back on his village. As requested, he was capturing her delinquent grandson. The sand that moved to envelop the Suna rogue was neither sluggish nor loose. Clearly, he completely meant what he was doing...and judging by the look on Sasori's face, the unprecedented chain of events was not to his liking.

It was her turn to look smug.

Sasori didn't so much as spare her a dark glance. His attention was focused solely on the boy, the murderous loathing at his betrayal fading to bitter acceptance of his predicament; he hadn't really expected to get out of this alive anyway. But he made a point of looking away – down at the swirling, thick mass around him – before the rest of his small emotional spectrum was revealed.

The betrayal went beyond denied freedom, and he closed his eyes against the unexpected hurt it caused.

_I _trusted_ you._

_And this is how I am repaid?_

The cold, cynical part of his mind sneered.

_Trust?_

_Tsk, tsk. Sasori, you ought to know better by now._

As always, Gaara remained blank, expressionless. Yet still he focused on Sasori, not breaking eye contact with the other. He could not hope to try and project a reconciliatory message between them. There was nothing he could say that could possibly justify himself to Sasori. He would not attempt to delude himself otherwise.

And it was difficult to even excuse himself. The best and most concrete reason he could develop was 'It was his duty as the Kazekage'. And it was.

He kept telling himself a lot of it was Sasori's fault. He had the chance to run and he didn't take it. Which was true.

Regardless of any reason for it, however, Sasori would be captured. And he'd likely be fostering a large grudge.

But...something nearly made Gaara pause. Sasori looked away first, breaking eye contact in a strange gesture. Was it disgust?

That gesture remained in his mind when he finally looked away, finally turning his attention back to Chiyo. And with hesitancy disguised as careful handling, he lifted Sasori off his feet. He knew where the containment cells were. He didn't need to be told.

He jumped off the building he stood on, carrying his captive with him.

**Lightining Ougi: Gaara**

**NightmareTears: Sasori, Chiyo**


	10. Politics

It was nightfall when the politicians of the village were settled, as it had taken an extended period of time to gather up the members of the council. Of course, they were understandably flustered, perhaps with bruised prides. It had been a long time since any of them had been at the blunt of any shinobi attack, especially something as extreme as chemical warfare. It had even been enough to draw out the elder, Chiyo, who had vowed to permanently isolate herself from the village's affairs.

Upon being cured, the only information they had received was that the poison was from an unknown person or persons and that, somehow, their Kazekage (who had returned a day later than he informed his brother he would, which had already caused concern) had found someone who was capable of making the antidotes for it.

Then there was the unexplained capture of Sasori within their borders, after the Akasuna member had not been seen for over two decades.

In short? Gaara had a lot of blanks to fill in. Several of which he was not keen on informing anyone.

Baki and Kankuro, being dedicated Shinobi, as always, were the first to greet Gaara in the meeting hall. They exchanged their concerns for each other's well being, and Kankuro asked why it had taken him so long to get back from wherever it was he had gone. Gaara managed to avoid that question by saying he would inform the whole council. Despite the lack of crucial knowledge between the three, the encounter had the typical muffled affection to it, and Gaara was relieved beyond belief to see the two well.

Shukaku, who for a while had been placing imaginary bets on whether or not the puppeteer could actually save the majority of the village in time, gave a snort and settled back into the recesses of his container's mind. Some few people had died. Most were alive, and the fun was over once the old men sat down to talk.

Gaara sat in his casual clothing (that he hadn't changed in three days; he felt _filthy_) at one end of the table, looking tired, if anything. The conversation amongst the other council men was sparse. Really, there was no other issue that took priority over the current ones, and their Kazekage and their newly returned elder were the only ones with any comprehension of what was going on.

One of the councilmen gave a rattling hack, which turned out to be the aging equivalent of clearing his throat. This one reminded Chiyo – sitting a few rows down – of a fat, graying hound, his cheeks loose and drooping and his eyes baggy, his body almost too big for his chair. Every time he moved, it seemed to groan under his weight. Fortunately, he didn't move often. His voice was rough when he spoke, as though his words were produced by rubbing sandpaper together. Gravely, low, chafing at the ears.

"We are gathered here today-" Cough. "-to discuss the matter of-" Cough cough hack. "-the recent attack upon Sunagakure."

With that, he slumped back in his seat, clearly exhausted.

Another man, this one with a feeble, breathy voice that wavered rather severely when he used it, continued the opening remarks. He, too, had a face that seemed to hang off of his skull, though he was thin and sticklike, sharply contrasting to his fellow. His nose whistled faintly as he took a breath to speak, and he hand he lifted to accent his words trembled. "Though the village has been healed of its ailments, with only a handful of deaths," Another airy breath. "The question still remains within the council of the identity and intentions of the perpetrator."

Chiyo nearly scoffed at the twig-like old man. The question only remained in _part_ of the council – if they had no information on the 'perpetrator', as he had so eloquently put it, they'd be sending out shinobi to search instead of holding a meeting with a group of elders far dustier than she would ever allow herself to be. They were gathered in this ancient stone room because there was information to be shared. She could see the curiosity burning in the eyes of the assembly.

Her dark eyes flicked to Gaara.

She would wait for him to speak before revealing what little she knew – after all, she was _quite_ certain he had a good deal more to confess than she.

Gaara was still in his seat, his attention politely following from one speaker to another, as was the courtesy in the meeting hall. He had known the elders since he was competent enough to recognize faces, although he hadn't learned their names until much later. Up until the Chuunin exams—his entire life was beginning to be divided by that event—they had been objects of his sheer disgust. Useless, aging relics that somehow held power over the weaker-willed beings in the village. But that view had grudgingly faded, and he was used to them now.

His breath caught in his throat almost noisily when the second of the elders gave information that was news to him. A handful of deaths? There had been casualties?

His eyes were widened, and for a moment he stared forward, looking through the people sitting across from him.

The other's statement was his cue to begin explaining himself, but still.

He hadn't known anyone had died.

He forced the shock off of his face, his gaze finally focusing to the people around him. And he began.

"Four days ago, while a short distance outside Sunagakure's walls, I encountered a shinobi I identified as Sasori. He later confirmed that he was affiliated with the organization Akatsuki." Had this meeting been more prepared, Gaara might have arranged for someone to pass out papers containing the information Konoha had given them about the Akatsuki. But, unfortunately, it wasn't, and there was little to know about the Akatsuki anyways. "Initially, I did not engage him. Instead, he approached me and proposed that I return with him. He expressed his organization's intentions to extract the Shukaku from me."

Now, the story turned sour. So he did not pause to allow the others to question what his response was – he went ahead and said it.

"I agreed to come along with him. He directed me to return to Sunagakure and inform someone close to me that I would be gone for an extended period of time."

The more he said, the more idiotic he felt for making those choices.

The only sound in council room was the hiss of the elders' breathing. A few of them were stunned, their eyebrows lifted in a way that made the skin on their foreheads fold, their mouths hanging open. A few more seemed aggravated, frowning as they listened to the story – whether their scowls were directed at the Kazekage and his choices or the absent puppeteer was impossible to determine. Others leaned forward, listening intently so as not to miss anything. Those that were left were in silent stupors, either thinking or (in one case) sleeping.

Between Baki and Kankuro, the differences in their concerns were made evident. Baki had long been his teacher, and had been part of the council since he was Kankuro's age, so his expression slid from disbelief to disappointment.

Baki would lecture him on his choices, of course. Gaara could practically hear him now, but that was mainly because he had been lecturing himself over and over again about this.

Kankuro, however, seemed more concerned than anything. Sasori was an S-ranked criminal, and his thoughts were currently more occupied about Gaara encountering him. That was before the young Kazekage got to the part where Kankuro was in the story.

Chiyo narrowed her eyes, disappointed by the boy to say the least. She'd expected him to have a bit more sense than that.

But she said nothing. Despite herself, she wanted to hear more about the antics of her grandson preceding his capture...Though she told herself that she would keep her mouth shut only because it would be unbecoming to lecture the red-haired youth on proper decision making in the middle of a council meeting. She'd save that for later, beyond the public eye. Then she could howl at him as loudly as she pleased.

For now, she would listen.

Apparently, the hound-like councilman had a slightly different idea. He cleared his throat – the sound of it rough and phlegmmy – and asked in a grating, deep voice that was thick with disapproval, "I don't suppose you gave _any_ thought to the consequences of-"

His critique was interrupted by his characteristic fit of coughing, during which a woman far older than Chiyo chose to interrupt.

Her skin had the powdery softness of a peach, albeit paper thin and deeply lined, and not quite as loose and pouchy as that of the others. Her cotton-white hair was thin and delicate, framing her round face in a curtain that drifted over her shoulders. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled at the Kazekage. Clearly, she hoped to ease any hurt he may have sustained from the other's biting comment. "And who did you decide to tell about your venture?" She inquired gently, folding her thin, veined hands atop the table.

Gaara's brother would not abandon him so easily. In response to the second question presented to the table (the first would be ignored; everyone expected Gaara to answer that soon enough) he stood up from his seat.

"Gaara told me that he would be distancing himself from the village for a day," a pause, and both siblings locked eyes. Kankuro was waiting for him to explain further, to make this lie feel less like a betrayal. With that, the elder sibling sat down again, to allow Gaara to continue.

Gaara couldn't make excuses for the choice he made.

He also couldn't tell them the real reason why he had agreed to it. '_I agreed to follow him due to my own self-interests_.'

"I was unaware the magnitude of the position I was in. I acted without fully accessing the situation, and Sasori was permitted to enter the village. There, I believe he implanted several canisters of the poisons."

There was a muted chorus of murmurs and whispers, most revolving around the fact that a ninja who was known to be dangerous had – somehow – been allowed to wander about in the village. He'd come _how_ close to the sleeping, unguarded villagers? He'd planted _what_ amongst the buildings? He must've been unattended for it to happen without the Kazekage's notice. How incredibly reckless. Just _reckless_...

Again, the grandmotherly elder intervened.

"And after you left?" She pressed him, and the table grew silent. Despite their growing discontentment at the choices of their young village leader, they were curious as to how the events played out. How was it, exactly, that captor had become captive?

Chiyo continued to look on in silence.

"We both left Sunagakure, and he intended to head to River Country. On the way there we fell into conflict, and he incapacitated me. I was unaware of it at the time, but he chose then to detonate the poison canisters. He continued onto River country, where I regained consciousness and engaged him again."

This was another part where he chose to omit one fine detail.

The village did not need to know of Shukaku's involvement. It was another irresponsible choice, but it was ironically the most effective one he had made.

For a moment his gaze turned to Chiyo. He distantly wondered if she would want to know what exactly had happened.

"I was able to disarm him." To Chiyo that would have an obvious and rather literal meaning, "And I returned to the village."

Now here was the issue that would certainly raise the most controversy.

"When I arrived, I found Sunagakure in a state of crisis due to his poisons. I knew Sasori was capable of producing antidotes, so I was forced to make a deal with him. He would provide antidotes for the population, and I would release him before our shinobi would recover enough to stop him."

There was silence around the table, this time. Absolute silence.

When a bent and withered elder broke it, his voice shook more than it should have.

"Surely you did not mean to...to go _through_ with this deal, Kazekage." He almost insisted, glancing around the table as he spoke. "A missing nin could not possibly be allowed to...to go _free_." Nods and murmurs of agreement. The atmosphere was changing to one of delicacy and care – no one was sure what they believed or wanted to believe about the red-haired boy who sat at the head of the table.

No one, with the exception of an individual who was _quite_ involved in the whole affair.

Chiyo's hands clenched where they rested on her knees beneath the table, and she gritted her teeth. It was a promise that would've been considered a clever way to bend her grandson to suit the village's needs...had the boy not intended to _keep _it.

_Gaara, you are the kage of fools._

Kankuro glanced back and forth between his brother and the council.

A deal with Sasori that persuaded him to help the village? Initially, Kankuro took this the wrong way. It was commendable that Gaara had managed to procure that kind of bargain from him. Admittedly, that kind of deceit seemed...unlike Gaara...

But then, of course, the young puppeteer took notice of everyone's doubt, and the quavering question that lingered in the air.

Had Gaara...seriously intended to let Sasori go?

The same sort of thought simultaneously entered the minds of both Baki and Kankuro.

Perhaps all he had learned from that Uzumaki Naruto had made Gaara...too sympathetic.

Gaara's stillness did not shift, and he did not readily avert his eyes from those around him. But on the inside he was squirming like a teenager forced to admit a grievous fault to his furious parents.

Finally, he managed what was probably a very unsatisfying answer.

"Obviously, he wasn't allowed to go free."

"Which brings us to now," Chiyo, in a small effort to spare the boy the probing questions that lingered on the lips of the aged council, divulged what little information she had. "The village is, as stated before, healed. Casualties were minimal. The one responsible for it – Sasori – has been captured and put in confinement. We have the Kazekage to thank for that. Were it not for the decisions he made, regardless of what the circumstances may have been at the time, it's entirely possible that Sasori would still be wandering in the desert, free to do as he pleased."

The drooping, flabby councilman thought it apt to give his input.

"The Kazekage said that he had a conflict with the-" Hack cough cough."-rogue, and that was when he set off the bombs. Is it not entirely-" Cough. "-possible that the village would have been untouched were it not for _his_ involvement?" He gestured to the boy, the layers of his prodigious stomach jiggling.

"I suspect," She glanced pointedly around a doubtful council, her dark eyes narrowing. "He would have attacked the village whether or not he was let into it. It is not in his nature to let something he despises go unscathed. But, were it not for his involvement," She nodded at Gaara. "We would have no idea who had launched the attack and why."

"But-"

"The _point_ of the matter," Chiyo was glaring now, wearied by this line of questioning. "Is not what was done, but what there is still yet to do."

Mutters of agreement broken out, and the few speculating whispers were silenced.

What to do indeed.

_You mean, had it not been for you, Sasori would still be wandering the desert, free to do as he pleased._ Gaara corrected Chiyo in his thoughts. Despite her words, he found himself surprisingly grateful that she would say such a thing, as she had no reason to help him save face. Especially since he really had been caught attempting to escort Sasori out of the village. But perhaps she was just trying to get this over with so she could talk to the council about Sasori's fate. Fine by him. He was glad to have rest from explaining what he had done in the past week (although he knew he would have to explain again and again to his siblings and his teacher).

To this Gaara looked to Chiyo. He had no suggestions to how the captive should be handled. At this point in time, he didn't want to think of it. In all likelihood, Chiyo had an idea of how to deal with her grandson, didn't she?

"I'm sure you are all aware of how missing-nin are handled." Chiyo continued, folding her hands atop the stone table. "They are put in confinement, questioned if there is a possibility they may divulge important information, and then, once their usefulness had exhausted itself...executed."

A ripple of nods, come confirming and some agreeing. Yes, they were quite familiar with the processing procedure of rogues. Yes, they all thought it quite suitable.

"We've already done the first of the three, and I seriously doubt he will have anything to say to anyone here about the Akatsuki organization. So," She leaned back in her chair, regarding her audience flatly. "I suggest we move on to the final step."

"Are you sure?" The grandmotherly elder inquired, doubt playing over her face. "Perhaps if _you_ spoke to him, he-"

"I _assure _you, he would say no more to _me_ than anyone else on this council. Less, I suspect." Chiyo responded coldly, her mouth twisted into a grimace.

The curiously talkative old man with the gravely voice and expanse of stomach gave his opinion on the matter quite bluntly: "I say we-" Cough. "-kill him. As soon as possible."

Chiyo's proposal struck Gaara speechless. Kill him? Kill Sasori without even bothering to attempt to question him? And somehow members of the council were willing to go along with it, even though it was obvious it was based on an old woman's grudge?

Perhaps it was out of guilt, and of the slightest bit of gratitude he felt he owed Sasori—but for now, Gaara spoke, questioning the logic of such a wasteful killing.

"We manage to capture a member of an organization we know near nothing about, and you suggest we kill him?" The slightest tone in his voice was incredulous, but his eyes were blank as he looked to Chiyo. "No arrangements to even attempt to pry any information from him?"

He looked back over to the council, "When I was with him, he was slightly disposed to tell me some things of his organization. Most important being that after being captured by the enemy, his Akatsuki may not be inclined to take him back under its wing if he returns. That gives me reason to believe he may talk. If you all think it is a wasted effort to use our country's interrogators on him, I'll I go and talk to him."

Chiyo did not bother to sheathe her glare. There was no point in hiding the fact that she would be more than agreeable about killing her grandson – there was nothing left in him of the boy she'd cared for with the exception of the mystery of his face, which (though she was admittedly curious about it) she would not delay execution to solve. He was cruel, he was cold...he was a murderer. What reason could _anyone_ have to keep him alive?

Apparently, Gaara had _found_ a reason.

She gritted her teeth, glancing around the table.

They seemed to be considering it, turning the possibility over in their heads. After all, there was undeniable truth in his words; any information a member of the Akatsuki might possess was invaluable, and if there was even a _chance_ he might talk, then there was reason to keep him alive just a little bit longer.

"Sounds very reasonable." The elder with the peach-soft face murmured. In the silence following the Kazekage's statement, her voice was easily loud enough to be heard by the half-deaf man on the opposite side of the table.

There were nods and mutters, all with opinions parallel to hers. Only two scowled, disapproving of the idea: the hound-drooping councilman and, of course, Chiyo herself.

"It would be foolish to put an end to him when there is a chance he may speak." The woman continued with rising confidence, her voice slightly louder to carry over the mumblings of the others.

"Yes, of course." The skinny elder agreed.

The fat elder harrumphed impatiently. "I still think we ought to k-"

"Don't be ridiculous. A member of the Akatsuki? What he knows may protect the village in the future." The twig-man retorted.

"_Ridiculous?_ Speak for yourself, you old-"

"_Excuse_ me, gentlemen." The grandmotherly one had begun to look less and less like a grandmother as the argument rose in volume. She quite nearly had to shout to be heard over them. When they glanced over at her, both balked and fell_ quite_ silent; apparently, she could be frightening when she wanted to be. "This is a council meeting, not a verbal wrestling match." She scowled, and both nodded.

"Now," Glancing back at the suddenly attentive council, she smiled a rather warm and fuzzy smile. "I say we let the Kazekage speak with him. Are we in agreement?"

There was a circle of nods, broken only by the sulking councilman and the glaring Chiyo, whose eyes were once again locked on the boy's face.

_How _dare_ he?_

Kankuro found himself under a bit of confusion, mainly that Gaara would so eagerly volunteer to go talk with Sasori. Maybe the sibling was being suspicious, but he relented to believe that there was something more going on between the two than any of the council was willing to admit. Despite his hesitancy, the plan was the most valid anyone had come up with so far (and it had seemed strange that Chiyo was in such a hurry to kill off her grandson) so he agreed. 

Baki was still in some wondering as to why Sasori would be more willing to talk to his captor. After all, the Jounin had been in the village a while, and he knew that if there was one thing an Akasuna could hold onto, it was a grudge. But, if by experience (what a dreadful thought) Gaara thought Sasori would be willing to communicate, then he was in no place to disagree. 

"And the Kazekage will be monitored, of course," came a new suggestion, said as if the speaker had just sat down for the meeting. And indeed, Yura was known for his lapses in memory, so he very well could have just done so. He seemed informed, however, of all that had been said, and was in the mood to put in his own opinions. 

The young Kazekage turned his attention to the sleepy looking Jounin that sat vaguely at his left. The sentiment put a bad taste in his mouth...but had he really expected to get off this incident without any suspicions on his head? No. That would have been folly. 

Chiyo leant back in her chair, eyeing the councilman.

What was his name...Yura? Ah. Yes, that would be the one...A sharp witted young man, and a skilled politician. Nothing seemed to escape his notice. He was a judicious sort, she recalled, and had served the village well in his few years spent making decisions for it. Now, he was applying his experience to this rather tangled situation, and making sensible suggestions in the midst of the muddled knot of indecision.

She would've been happier had Sasori's death been decided upon, but having him monitored while meeting with the Kazekage was...fair enough, she supposed.

"Of course," She agreed, scowling at what few others seemed doubtful until they nodded with her.

One man raised his voice in a question. "Who would you suggest we choose for the...monitoring?" He inquired, his voice fragile with age. "In the event that the..._unexpected_ should occur."

Many of those seated at the table exchanged glances. They all knew what he had so subtly implied with his carefully vague words: _what if the Kazekage and the puppet master decide to make a run for it again? _After all, the intentions of the demon boy had already been brought into question by his previous actions, and there lingered enough suspicion for extra precautions to be entirely necessary. As for the rogue...there was no doubt he'd take any escape opportunity presented to him.

Who would be best suited to the job, then? Was there such a person in the village? Someone who, if not able to detain them, could as least flee in time to alert someone?

Yura had a look of light contentment on his face, in triumph of winning over Chiyo's opinion. She seemed to be the one everyone was seeking to please today, which was probably due to her relation with the missing nin in question. At least, that's what it seemed to the younger generation. Anyone who had been in the council longer than ten years recalled the manner in which Chiyo had left it, vowing to never again involve herself in Sunagakure's squabbling affairs. Oh, and everyone was nursing a fear of her wrath.

But there was a question still hanging in the air.

"Perhaps I could accompany the Kazekage." Yura proposed. He was a Jounin after all; he could handle a number of situations.

Across the table, Baki gave him an odd look. Yura didn't seem to catch it. If he did, he gave no indication of it.

Gaara also had no response to present to the group. Any indication of favoring an attendant would seem as if he was picking someone he could win over. Which was ludicrous at this point. He doubted even his brother would be willing to give him any slack in any way after this meeting.

Chiyo glanced at the others, gauging their reactions to the young councilman's offer. They all seemed content to name him Gaara's babysitter, nodding to themselves or each other sensibly. One or two frowned at the ceiling, as though trying to recall if there was anyone better suited. No one came immediately to mind.

Yura did, indeed, seem to be a logical choice in this particular matter. The pair would have to be monitored by someone who was aware of the situation – both of Sasori's history, and Gaara's more recent attempt to, possibly, free him. They would need someone with a sharp mind. They would need someone who was trusted to act in favor of the village, no matter what the situation.

He fit every requirement.

"I don't see why not." Chiyo announced. She was the only one to speak, but the decision was made by all – Yura would look after them. He would make sure they did nothing questionable. He would report back to the council on what he heard, along with Gaara.

_Excellent_.

Baki gave a relieved exhale. Finally. There was a moderate amount of peace that came with the decision made. He did not entirely see Yura's volunteering as without suspicion, but at the same time Chiyo coming to an agreement was something they all wanted...But there was still something odd about the Jounin's preposition to the role of babysitter. No other council member, save Baki himself, would have offered himself up. So why had Yura?

Gaara locked his gaze with the other council member. The other watched him in turn, and they exchanged impassive looks. The young Kazekage was the first to turn away, back to the others sitting around him.

"Have all issues been decided upon?" He offered to the group, subtly hinting at his desire to distance himself from the minds behind Suna. He had, out of some petty guilt in his thoughts...saved Sasori's life?

No. Sasori was still dead in the hands of his enemies. He had only managed to extend it for perhaps a handful of days.

"Yes." Chiyo answered curtly, ignoring the opinions of the others seated at the table. If any of them had a problem that they would like to resolve, they would have to wait until the next council meeting; she was loosing patience with the whole affair, and – much like the Kazekage – wanted to distance herself from this dusty, wretched room as soon as humanly possible.

One of the other elders cleared his throat. "We will meet again in one week's time." He muttered, the phrase little more than a formality. It was as much of an ending as there ever was to the council meetings, and it was done every time.

Chiyo repressed a heavy sigh. She couldn't decide if she was happy it was finally over or irritated it had to be ended by ancient rituals.

Kankuro was the first to get up, stoutly, pushing his chair in with a decent amount of noise. He gave the expected bow of his head, and with one final look at his sibling, left the room.

Gaara actually seemed to shrink a little in regards to that. It was one of the few reactions he had given that day. 

Baki stood up, but not to leave. He watched his ex-student-now-Kazekage. 

Of course. It was time for a talk.

With a bit of frustration, it came to Gaara that one major issue was an elephant running through the room, unresolved. When was he to talk to Sasori? Now? Whenever the council ordered? He doubted he could request to _them_ when he wanted to talk with the nuke-nin.

His gaze shifted to Chiyo, wondering if he would receive any direction from her.

Sasori's grandmother was a sharp sort, and her abilities were plentiful...but she was not a mind reader, and saw no more in the look Gaara sent her way than the look itself. Maybe there was a question hidden in it, maybe not. She couldn't tell either way.

The elderly, peach-skinned councilwoman, however, may very well have had the power to look into people's thoughts.

"Kazekage-sama," She spoke with light formality, her tone lacking the doggish reverence of the village's other inhabitants. "You may interrogate the Akatsuki when you are ready...but try not to delay too long, and be sure to report to Yura beforehand. That's all."

Chiyo listened to the gentle instructions offhandedly, shuffling to her feet with a groan; she was beginning to feel her age.

_Being in this damned council room would make _anyone_ feel their age._

How incredibly true.

For Gaara, he definitely felt as if he were an inexperienced, undependable child. He gave a nod of respect to the woman. "Elder." Finally, he got up out of his seat. After a look from Baki, he walked over to stand beside his teacher. They both gave a nod to Chiyo; Baki's bow was more defined, but Gaara lowered his eyes. "Elder Chiyo." The Jounin spoke. 

Gaara turned his attention to Yura, "I'll be free in about ten minutes. Will you wait for me outside the containment cells?" Gaara was treating himself as if he had lost all ability to command. Everything was in request. 

Baki looked to his Kazekage with a bit of uncertainty. Gaara still retained his dangerous quality of being unreadable. Needless to say, nearly every councilman's faith in him had been shaken. And Gaara gave no indications as to whether his intentions were innocent, or perhaps with malice.

But at least there was progress. He would talk with Gaara.

**Lightining Ougi: Gaara, Kankuro, Baki**

**NightmareTears: Chiyo, Councilmen/women**

**Oh my god. A chapter without Sasori in it. Quick, call the media!**


	11. Recollections

Gaara had found it moderately easy to turn to stone before his old teacher. For a long time, that had been his reflexive response to any solitary lecture Baki gave him. But still as he listened with a blank and impenetrably stoic expression, he still felt the guilt creep within him. Like a worm still underground. And he still had shamed himself in front of nearly everyone whose respect was needed for him to continue to function as Kazekage. He could only hope things would blow over within a year or so, assuming he could even keep his position that long. Baki seemed to be feeling the same thing. At least he still desired for him to remain as Kazekage, and looked out for his best interests.

The speech covered all the expected points. That he shouldn't have left the village alone, shouldn't have allowed Sasori to enter the village (Which was a major point there) and should not be making any earnest deals for a missing nin's freedom (that was also a largely covered point) Gaara responded with the perquisite nods and subtle vocalizations when required. All in all, it seemed like the usual one-sided discussion, of a disappointed parent and an indifferent teen. But that was not to say Gaara did not intend to learn from his experiences.

He, however, had to live knowing that his mistakes had cost villagers their lives.

With a half-hearted dismissal, Gaara departed from the council headquarters, and entered the city streets, where evening was dying the sky red and the city was in an unusual state of hustle and bustle. As to be expected, though. He took a roof route, leaping over alleys and streets to the less occupied government buildings some ways back. The old containment cells weren't generally very full. Ever since the wars trickled away, the prisoners were reduced to upstart missing nin caught before they could take flight.

He landed near the entrance, and looked around.

He was nearing on the late side; having underestimated the time it would take for Baki to inform him of his thoughts. But as agreed, Yura was present and waiting casually. He wasn't leaning on a wall when Gaara greeted him. He stood with his discipline and approached when he saw the teen arrive.

"Are you sure you want to approach Sasori so soon, Kazekage-sama?" Yura spoke, skipping a polite greeting and diving in straight to a question. It didn't sting Gaara as much as he might have thought it did, and he gave a firm nod in response. Satisfied, the two flanked each other, and entered the facility,

There were probably more guards then prisoners in the building, as they had to have a number of staff regardless of occupants. Interrogators, emergency medics, those who handled the chakra seals and orderlies. Lots and lots of unneeded orderlies. (Orderlies being the almost euphemistic term for the job.)

Sasori would be locked up in a little box of a room. No windows. No toilet. A cot that was nailed to the floor, the door sealed by numerous and precise tags written with the utmost care. As with the sealing – as the two Suna shinobi stood in front of the particular cell, which even had the seal markings on the walls comprising the room – the village had spared no expense. From his short time with Chiyo, Gaara already figured she was to be credited for Sasori's 'extravagant board'.

Inside the seal-ridden box of metal and stone, Sasori gave little to no indication that he was aware of his visitors.

He was nestled comfortably into the corner his cot had been placed in, his back against the connecting walls. One leg was bent atop the makeshift bed while the other drifted over the side, his arms slack in his lap. His face was turned upward at the rough ceiling of his new room, his eyes tracing the hair-thin cracks...finding their obscure, hidden patterns.

It reminded him of his life twenty-odd years ago, when he had spent many of his hours finding patterns in the ceiling. Waiting, much as he was now.

Only, then, he had been waiting for life. Now he was waiting for death.

What a concept.

Silently, he turned his gaze down to his limp hands. They'd let him keep the limb Gaara had brought him, which was a small bonus; at least he wouldn't have to try and maneuver his way around the cell off-balance and short an arm...But they'd also searched his pockets with painstaking care. The few sprinkles of herbs, the black bottle, and an extra syringe he'd neglected to discard were all confiscated.

The first and last he could've cared less about – after all, the leaves were easily replaceable and the syringe wasn't his to begin with. But the bottle...well, that was a secret. A personal recipe. One he had concocted himself, and not without difficulty.

Now, granny had access to it. She could unlock the secrets of his poison.

_Damnit._

The whole affair was a mistake followed by a mistake followed by a mistake. Every chance he'd had – to flee, to fight, to do was he absolutely _had_ to – had passed him by, and now he was well and truly _fucked_. Beautiful. Wonderful. Fucking _excellent_.

In a grudging acknowledgement of the pair who stood beyond the bars of his cage (one, he knew, would be Gaara – the other was likely a guard of some sort), Sasori let out an airy huff and frowned.

"So, Gaara," Sasori grumbled in a low, flat tone, the corner of his lip curling. "When have the council decided to kill me? Tomorrow? Now, maybe? That would certainly explain why _you're_ here."

The last was spat, acidic.

It would be safe to say that the fallen puppet master thought little of liars and betrayers, and he considered the young Kazekage a member of both loathed categories at the moment.

Gaara was still for a long, silent moment.

Sasori appeared to be, for the most part, unharmed. Apparently, as he had learned from the council, they hadn't even attempted to interrogate him.

Seeing the puppeteer, however, almost compromised his endlessly empty expression. For a moment he paused, lips parted, as if searching for something to say in a greeting. But Sasori spared him the trouble, the anger in his voice putting Gaara back to control. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

"You aren't dying today. And not likely tomorrow."

He gave a bit of a snort, "We need to talk, Sasori."

Yura stood still, looking to the guards to see if they were going to let Gaara enter the cell or just let the two talk with the bars between. But they made no movement, so bars between it was.

The puppeteer turned questioning brown eyes to the Kazekage at the first and second of his trio of statements. Then...they hadn't scheduled the end of his life during the meeting that would have inevitably taken place after his capture? Why? He was a rogue, a terrorist, a mass-murderer – on top of it, he'd launched a blatant attack on the village. They had every reason in the shinobi world to want him dead, and that wasn't even taking account of the fact that his grandmother was _bound_ to be in on his execution.

So, why...?

Even more than why, _who_...?

Then, of course, the boy's last statement registered in his mind, shoving away all thoughts of who might have vouched for an extension of his short life and why.

His voice was dry when he spoke. "You want information." It was more statement than question, more observation than hypothesis. He _knew_ that the only purpose he served was to feed his old village information on the organization he was now a part of. It was fact.

It was also, apparently, his lifeline.

Gaara gave a single, curt nod. It was indeed his lifeline. There wouldn't have been any hope for him had the promise of information not enticed the villagers. Gaara wouldn't bother telling him it had been he who had pushed to spare Sasori's life, however temporarily. It probably would have seemed like a petty statement anyways, but it was more that it was something Gaara did not want to say out loud. Like a good sufferer, his punishment and repentance would be silent and self inflicted.

"Yes. I need you to tell me about your organization." His face seemed to take a turn to a sterner expression. "I can enter no obligations. However, anything you say could inspire Suna to keep you alive."

No persuasive reasoning. No bargaining. Only the facts.

The puppeteer regarded him silence, his eyes narrowing.

As expected, the boy and his village wanted information. Apparently, giving them what they wanted might 'inspire' them to spare him.

Well. _That_ changed things not at all. They would kill him no matter what he told them, no matter how much he disclosed. He could tell them where the hideout was, the tricks to break in, the weakness of every member of the organization, and the exact color of Pain's nail polish – they would _still_ kill him. Drawing out his time in this wretched little room by leaking what he knew would serve no purpose.

Sasori was opening his mouth to say as much when his eyes drifted absently over the shinobi who had accompanied Gaara to the containment center.

He stilled, his jaw falling a fraction lower.

_Is that...?_

Yura. _Yura._ Yura, whose mind he had put under a memory block jutsu something over ten years ago. Yura, who was _still_ under said block. Yura, who was his underling, his piece to play, his hidden weapon...and who was so completely _unaware_ of the fact.

Yura, who was his express ticket _out_ of this place.

With much effort, Sasori kept his expression carefully smooth, looking back at the Kazekage. A trickle of speculation shone through his flat mask...though it could've easily been mistaken for speculation over the boy's words, or the subtle proposal. It might be interpreted as a turning of gears in his mind as he dredged up what he knew.

The corner of his mouth tightened, and he frowned. For show, mostly.

"...What do you want to know?"

Yura regarded Sasori with some stern obliviousness. Sasori held some meaning for him, of course, but in his current state it was only the feelings towards all of the village's missing nin. Happily unaware of his status—and by extension, his value—he was merely here to observe. And Sasori's suddenly compliant nature seemed to brighten him.

Gaara seemed relieved, in some form, that Sasori's abject pride wasn't resurfacing. He had been fearing (almost expecting) Sasori to respond in some form of 'What does it matter what I tell you? I'm dead irregardless'. Which, to all intents and purposes, was true. So why was Gaara so intent on extending that life?

Either way, Sasori was willing to talk.

"First things," Gaara had already a number of questions in mind. Five, to be exact, a little set number as if this was all just a child's game, "What is the purpose of the Akatsuki?"

"To control the shinobi world." Sasori answered without pause, his voice bland and clinical. "Pain intends to collect the bijuu and harness their power. Once we have them all, the organization will become a mercenary group for hire, allied only to the village paying us for our services. We will attack in place of the shinobi of the weaker villages."

He paused, glancing up at the ceiling as though mulling over the struggles that would go on whether or not he was involved. The bloodshed and death he had expected to be a part of, but now...

"When we run out of battles to fight, we will start them. We'll begin wars." Sasori looked back at the Kazekage, tilting his head to the side. "And when every conflict in every village of every country can be swayed by our involvement...when everything is under our control..." A smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes remained hard. "...we will crush the Five Great Shinobi Countries, and all of the others. They will become ours. We'll have everything."

Everything.

"Any other questions?" He inquired dryly, arching a fine brow.

_That's fine. I have time to spare._

Gaara blinked, his expression blank.

That was...an extended plan to say the least. So the Akatsuki were gathering all the Bijuu to use in some manner? Likely as weapons. The information was vague, too vague to be of much use, but both the Kazekage and Yura made note of what Sasori had said. World domination. Funny. Gaara had been expected a more concrete goal, but it seemed planned out enough.

But what he didn't get was how the Akatsuki planned to be a public power if they had stolen away Bijuu from the Hidden villages. Admittedly, he knew the shinobi villages allying with each other was a long shot of happening, but a threat of that magnitude could unite them.

Alliances. He would have to remember that.

Yura opened his mouth, perhaps to suggest his own question, but Gaara spoke first.

"Who is Pain?"

"Our leader. We take all of our orders from him, and him alone. As I've told you before, he's stronger than any of us. No one knows the full extent of his power, but..." He looked down at the floor. This time, the tightening of his features wasn't the least bit manufactured. "...we don't need to know. Suffice to say that if you've seen him fight, you're already dead."

When Sasori looked back at the Kazekage, the subtle emotions that danced behind his eyes were mixed: reverence, pride, sincerity...and fear.

Yes, fear. Because Pain was worthy of fear – more worthy than any shinobi he'd met in his life. Even Gaara, with his blood-hungry demon trapped inside of him, could not compare. The Akatsuki leader was a power far beyond imagination. Defeat, for him, was impossible. He walked the fine border of immortality through his own, immeasurable power.

"In the Rain Village, he is often venerated..." The puppeteer continued in a much softer tone, "...as a god."

It took much willpower for the Kazekage to _not_ react.

The concept was...frightening. A shinobi known as Pain, who ruled over this group of criminals, demanding their respect and perhaps fear from his sheer power. Was he the mastermind then? Intending to passively seize control over the Shinobi world?

The effect of the leader on Sasori was noticeable, though...even though Gaara could not pick out what the other was feeling. Some acknowledgement of the other's strength. 

Rain village. If he was in the Rain village, and well known, they could investigate. In an odd shifting of mental functions, Gaara quickly moved to memorize the facts Sasori had given him.

Spies would have to be planted. They would have to address the other countries in order to even approach Rain country, due to its geographic position. Should that be so, they may be able to recruit Konoha's aid, since the organization had already shown itself as a threat.

Good. They already had new information.

He gave a slight pause, uncertain for a moment. There had been a question lingering in his mind ever since he had first dragged Sasori back to his village. Gathering himself, he set his thoughts to words.

"Why did you join the Akatsuki?"

At this, Sasori stiffened, one of his hands clenching in his lap. His narrowed eyes flicked briefly to Yura before returning to the Kazekage.

There were certain things that no one needed to know. Not here, not now. Not Gaara. _Particularly_ not Yura.

"I do not see..." He murmured, a warning in the cold softness of his tone, "...how that information is relevant or useful to the Sand Village. Next question."

_If you know what's good for you, brat, you won't press me on the issue, either._

Gaara's eyes were locked on Sasori, and his expression was not a disappointed one. No. He really should have expected that. Even in a cell, even with his life threatened. The one thing he had learned about Sasori was that he had his pride, especially about his past.

_That's the thing about Akasuna nin. They'd rather stay and fight a losing battle. They're the most stubborn Shinobi in an entire country of stubborn Shinobi._ The demon's voice echoed breezily through his mind.

"Very well." Despite being in a position of power, Gaara submitted, "How many people currently comprise the Akatsuki?"

There. That was an important and valid question. After all, it was apparently crafted of S-ranked Missing nin.

"Nine. Never more, never less." Sasori held up his hands, one thumb tucked in to emphasize his point. "One for every bijuu. That is how we contribute to the growth of the organization – every member is to capture or otherwise procure one demon for the sake of the Akatsuki...Which is why I paid this wretched village a visit, in the event that there was any question about that." He said flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching downwards.

He paused, and glanced at the wall on the far side of the room. But not precisely at the wall...more so at something beyond it. As though he were picturing himself in some other dark, stony chamber. "...In retrospect, I ought to have brought Deidara..."

Ah, yes. Deidara. Why was it he had left his partner behind...?

Oh. Right. Because he was _noisy_.

Ridiculous.

The chosen numbers of the organization were puzzling to Gaara. Why would the organization deny itself extra hands if it could get them? Wouldn't such a movement require extra subordinates? Nine for nine, it seemed. The gears in his head were constantly shifting in regards to the Bijuu. He, firsthand, was aware of their power. His own, when not kept in check, could flatten an entire village in its rampage.

At the thought, the beast stirred once more, recalling how close it had been to a brief freedom, and, for a moment of coherence between the two beings, of how Sasori had remarked on the Akatsuki going after the rest of his 'kin'.

Gaara seemed to give a shrug at Sasori's sour comment. He knew why Sasori had been in Sand. The missing nin had made it evident as soon as they had met each other.

But the last statement drew his attention.

"Who is Deidara?" which was under the assumption Deidara was a person. To think of it, for all Gaara knew Deidara could be a puppet.

Sasori might have mentioned him before...so Gaara assumed he was indeed not a doll.

"My partner." Sasori shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "My stupid, noisy, drastically misguided partner. His idea of beauty is _horribly_ off. Doesn't have the _slightest_ clue what it is, what it should be. And the way he talks...As if those fireworks could be called _art_..." An exasperated sigh hissed between his teeth.

Deidara. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, too-tall and too-loud Deidara. Explosive master of clay. A necessary irritation.

In a way, his ignorance was what made him so effective. In a way, his ignorance was what balanced them out. In a way, his ignorance was what had kept him alive – it had endeared him to his puppeteer partner enough that the rogue Suna shinobi had resisted the urge to kill him. Many times.

Not that Sasori would ever admit it. To anyone, or to himself. In his mind, he simply put up with the boy for the sake of the Akatsuki.

But, really, Deidara was a student in extreme need of teaching – a younger brother full of misconceptions. And Sasori had every intention of eventually putting the right ideas into the boy's head. Someday, he would understand the meaning of art. Someday.

Gaara was silent, sorting through this new tidbit in his mind.

So Deidara was Sasori's comrade? That was odd. Why had Sasori gone alone into a hostile territory? Usually when you were assigned a comrade, you stuck with them. And merely, it was common sense. Going in a mission alone was a danger. A Shinobi never went on a mission alone unless the chance of dying was acceptable to them.

It took Gaara a while to look back upon himself in regards to that belief. Never go on a mission alone. Every Shinobi knew that.

And for some reason, for the longest time, he hadn't treated that as if it ever applied to him. If he were in Sasori's position, with a partner he disliked who might be incompetent, he might have gone in alone.

Back then, when he thought so little of his siblings, he often did the same thing.

"That's not what I am asking, Sasori. _Who_ is Deidara?" He repeated the question, to drill into Sasori that he wasn't asking for his personal interpretations of his organization. He needed facts.

Sasori paused to cast the Kazekage a glare. It was nothing short of impertinent for the boy to interrupt his thoughts.

...Then again, _he_ wasn't the one behind bars in a village he despised, was he? Some would say that gave him due right to be impertinent.

"Deidara is my partner." He repeated, as though mocking the question Gaara had bothered to ask yet again. "He is a master of explosives from the Rock Village. Before he was forced to join the Akatsuki, he was a member of a separate terrorist organization...He was assigned to me because Uchiha Itachi and Hoshigaki Kisame were already paired up."

_That and the fact that Pain was entertained by our squabbling._

"The Akatsuki typically works in groups of two. I came alone only because I wished to gather information, and didn't want him to give us away by setting off one of his bombs in a moment of panic."

A small thrill of interest rippled through the Kazekage.

So, they now had names for five out of the nine total members. One from Suuna, one from Iwa, one from Kiri, one from Konoha...and their leader might be residing in Ame. That could be a possible headquarters. He had wanted to ask one more question, but he had asked about Deidara before thinking. He had learned a decent amount with the conversation. Enough to secure Sasori's life, at least for the moment.

The guilt in his stomach retreated, grudgingly. It wasn't a service to Sasori, truly, but he did feel better for it.

"That's enough for today, then." He spoke, with the slightest of nods.

Yura seemed to hold a feeling of relief and contentment. It had gone smoothly with no...rescue attempts or anything.

"I will report today's findings, Kazekage-sama."

The two of them turned to leave.

The corner of Sasori's mouth lifted in a wry half-smile.

_Yes, Yura...You'll report. But not to the council._

He could feel the memory block. He could practically see it, with the one it had been inflicted upon so close. It was as strong as the day he'd created it, without the slightest hint of tampering or attempts at removal. Which meant no one had found out about it. Not surprising – after all, he'd made it himself. The craftwork of the jutsu was subtle but powerful, and absolutely flawless, much like the craftwork of his puppets...And also much like his puppets, it could be controlled at the twitch of a finger.

His hand curled into a fist, crushing something small and invisible.

The block crumbled.

The puppet master waited, his eyes intent upon the target of his technique. Now, Yura would remember. He would remember where his true loyalties lay, and what master he originally reported to. He would relearn his duties, his purpose. Once again, he would become something useful...a skilled and obedient servant.

_Do you remember who you are, Yura?_

Yura buckled the moment his mind reeled back into alignment. An undetectable technique seemed to go off right behind his eyes. He tottered forward, to half-collapse against the bars of an empty cell.

In the span of a second, everything became clear to him. The past came first.

"_I need you still, Yura. But you will know nothing of me from this point on."_

He had agreed for his master to seal his mind. His master. The current situation presented itself to him even as he recalled his time in Suna under the seal. His master was captured, and at this moment was in great need of him.

And he just realized the woefully obvious movement he had just given.

Shamefully, he righted himself, and wiped a bit of sweat off his brow.

The Kazekage. The one who had captured his master. A mix of revulsion and his retained loyalty came into conflict in his mind, but on his face he looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry about that," He muttered, at the concerned expression on Gaara's face. The teen had rushed over when Yura lost balance. "Migraines. I've always had a bit of a problem with them."

Gaara blinked, puzzled. But whatever had afflicted Yura seemed to have passed.

"You can go on, Gaara. I need to catch my breath."

Hesitant, the Kazekage looked to him, then gave a final look to Sasori in his cell. Finally, he gave a nod, and turned to depart.

When the door swung slowly closed behind the red-haired Kazekage, the puppet master's rigid shoulders eased.

_Finally_. It had seemed as though the demon boy would _never_ leave.

Sasori pushed himself off of the hard surface of his cot, the soles of his shoes clacking mutedly over the stone flooring as he approached the barred wall of his cell. His fingers were knit behind his back, his expression passive. There was no need for glares or false smiles, now...Not now that his freedom was all but guaranteed.

"Yura," His voice was low, but there was command in his tone; he was once again a master speaking to his servant...How wonderful it was to be able to _control_ something again. "Do you know who I am?"

He tilted his head to the side, arching a delicate brow. He brown eyes searched the shinobi who had, somehow, become a councilman, judging by the clothes he wore.

Yura's narrow gaze darted off down the empty hallways, making sure that they were not being listened to. Apparently his prior request for privacy had gone acknowledged. After all, it was reasonable. No official statement to the villagers had been released and the country had no need for rumors to be spread about dangerous Shinobi back in the village.

Nor did they need spies paying to find out more information about the Akatsuki.

The council would consider that their leg up on Konoha. Allies or not, it was best to be dominate in any political relation.

But that aside, it was good his master had caught him so quickly. Otherwise he might have given valuable knowledge to...the enemy.

"You are my master." He spoke with a bow of his head, "What is it you require from me, Sasori-sama?"

Satisfaction rippled through the puppeteer, and the intensity of his gaze slackened.

_That's right. I am your master. Good boy, Yura. Good boy..._

"I require a way out of here." Sasori glanced at the seals that lined the walls of his cage, his lip curling. "Preferably sooner than later. What I need is for you to prepare some means of escape – one with a guarantee. Any more screw-ups like these last few times, and the security lockdown will be so severe that you won't be able to smuggle out so much as a grain of sand."

He frowned, looking back at his servant. "How soon can you arrange it?"

Not _will_ you arrange it. Not _can_ you arrange it..._How soon_. There was no choice, no room for failure. At this point it was escape or death, as he was sure Yura understood.

In submission, Yura lowered his gaze, but didn't care to hide the look of relief on his face. So many years of living a lie. It was like he was finally alive again.

But there would be a time to sort out his inward crisis later. Now, he had his master to serve.

For a moment he was quiet as the mechanisms of his mind ran their course.

It...might not be so simple to break anyone out of this place. But it was under the lightest guard in years.

He himself might be able to take out the majority of the attendees. But sneaking him out of Suna after such an event would be a difficulty.

First, Sasori would need to be armed. Second, it would need to be at night (cliché as it might sound; attempting an escape in broad daylight was just stupid).

He would need time to plan, and to calculate, but...the most difficult part would not be to remove him from the prison, but to get out of Suna.

...He could actually transport Sasori out of the containment cell by claiming that the council had need of him. Then he could take Sasori to a weapons cache he had placed prior to. Finally, they could do their best to simply walk out of Sunagakure.

Master Sasori was one of the best in disguises.

"As soon as tomorrow, sir. Are there any weapons you would prefer for me to prepare for you?" he lifted his gaze, hesitantly.

He was tempted to wonder...if Sasori were to leave Sunagakure, would he take him along?

Probably not. His usefulness was limited to his position as an agent in the council.

The escape would likely mean the end of his value.

"Puppets." Sasori answered without pause, looking through and past Yura as he contemplated the best possible qualities a marionette of escape could possess. "One packed with plenty of poison. The best kind to use would be from that bottle they confiscated. Exploding tags would be good too..."

He paused; with Deidara, he suddenly recalled, there had never been any need for silly little _tags_.

"...for the sake of distraction, should we be noticed. And," He glanced at his subordinate, brows pulling together in a frown. There was one last thing that, all considered, might come in handy. "Something that produces fire. Lots of it. It seems the Kazekage can be counted on to _not_ let me go when recapture is possible, and I want to be _very_ well prepared."

His grandmother, he suspected, would not be an issue. Not compared to the Jinchuuriki, at least. Should push come to shove with her, he always had that last little trick of his sleeve. That trump card that no one in Suna knew about, save himself.

"...That's all. No mistakes, Yura. Remember that."

The councilman paused.

The poison? He could pick that up easily. He had access to all the confiscated items, being both a Shinobi and one of the council. Making a mental shopping list, he found all the ingredients could be easily found...except for the last one.

"A flamethrower, sir?" He questioned, resisting the urge to give him a blank look. That was a bit...heavy duty. And it would look a bit conspicuous for Yura to go to some...shop and ask 'Hey, uh, I need something that shoots a large amount of fire'.

He hoped his master would have kept some of those contraptions for him to retrieve, otherwise...

And why did he need fire in regards to the Kazekage?

Was that element Gaara's weakness, then? He filed that into his memories.

"Yes, a- ...Hm." Sasori paused. He lifted one hand, palm-up, and flexed his fingers, his brow crinkling in thought.

This was to be his final chance at escape. His last attempt. If things got messy, and battle ensued, there would be no holding back, no keeping his tricks comfortably up his sleeves. Everything – all he had – would have to be used. His secret would be kept by killing the shinobi who stood in his way.

In which case, there would be no call for another flamethrower.

"Actually...you won't need to worry about getting one of those. I'll be able to handle the brat. Just concern yourself with the puppets, the poison, and arranging the escape. If a situation should arise, I'll handle it."

Yura gave a stout nod, not wanting to be seen as uncertain (and therefore, unreliable), the look of puzzlement slipping away.

"It will be done, Master. I will not fail you." the assurance was also not needed, but he nevertheless he added the little promise with a bit of vigor.

He had a bit of work to do, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Just a gathering of weapons and puppets. Oh, but there was one thing left to be dealt with. 

"What would you have me tell the council, Master Sasori?" 

After all, Gaara and himself had been dealt a fair amount of delicate (if it was valid) information.

"Tell them what you want. I don't care. None of the information I gave is helpful beyond theory – the Kazekage may know how many members there are in the organization and where they originated, but it's not the least bit helpful in finding out more about them or locating them. Most of their villages know as much as or less than Sunagakure does. Being aware of the ultimate goal of the Akatsuki won't help them; it'll happen whether they like it or not. And knowing where to find Pain serves its purpose..."

He smiled, and there was something toxic in the curve of his lips.

"...The council may decide to launch an attack to eliminate him, and that would be a very good thing. Pain would beat the fight out of this wretched village. I'd have no objections to _that._"

Not at all. He would even join the fun, if he wasn't been concerned about being caught in Pain's crossfire. There would be no shortage of delight for Sasori in the throttling of the Suna shinobi, and outright glee in the destruction of the despised place of his birth.

Yura finally drew back, satisfied. Sasori seemed content with all the information given, which was probably for the better, considering that it would be awkward for Gaara to find out something other than what he had heard had been reported. Well, not necessarily awkward. More along the lines of potentially damning.

He scratched at the scalp above his ear as he shifted to face the task ahead of himself. 

And as he turned to walk away, he gave another pause. 

"Master Sasori. I heard from the Kazekage that you didn't know if the Akatsuki would allow you back into their ranks. Where will you go when you leave Suna?"

His voice was quiet, and he had chosen his words carefully. 'When you leave', not 'if' you leave. 'You', not 'we'.

The smile that had slipped onto Sasori's face at the thought of Pain massacring rank upon rank of Suna shinobi faltered at Yura's question.

That was a good question.

"I will, first...go back to the Akatsuki. There is a chance they will take me back, and a chance they will not. If they do, I will return to my duties as a member of the organization. If they don't...I will collect my possessions and find some other way of life. One that allows me plenty of subjects and materials."

Bodies and wood would be easy enough to acquire. But other things – metals and cloth and other things the organization had provided him with thus far – would be notably more difficult. He couldn't exactly waltz into a shop whenever he wanted and demand that they provide him with oils.

"Come to think of it...I could use your assistance if it came to that."

Yura's expression did not change, but on the inside a flicker of hope stirred. Oh, how he would want that. To travel with his master and be of more assistance.

He wasn't afraid of dying. He had already reconciled himself with the possibility. But… that did not mean he did not desire to live. It was actually a preferable option.

He remembered the time when Sasori had still been in Suna, and the hope grew into a want.

"If you have further need of me, Master, I will attend you." He gave a nod and turned away once more. It was a beautiful possibility, and he was struggling not to lose himself in the hope for it.

"I know you will, Yura. Now go." Sasori dismissed the Jounin with a nod and a wave of his hand. "We don't have time to squander, and I want to leave this place as soon as you can effectively manage."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode back to his cot with the deliberate confidence of any nin who could be called 'master', of any criminal whose freedom was all but in effect. His servant – obedient, trustworthy – was his to command once again, and from here on _he_, Sasori of the Red Sand, would be pulling the strings. The escape would run as well as any other puppet he controlled. Smoothly, flawlessly...

He conveniently forgot that his puppets had been too-easily destroyed by the young Kazekage.

The thin, stiff mattress creaked when he clambered back atop it, his figure too small to do so with any semblance of grace, and there was a moment of the muted whisper of cloth while he wriggled and shifted, trying to find a marginally comfortable place to sit.

It would all go well. He was sure of it.

**Lightning Ougi: Gaara, Yura**

**NightmareTears: Sasori (Because I'm not creative enough to handle more than two characters at once. Oh well.)**

**As always, comments are appreciated. Very much. Even if you just want to tell me to go die.**


	12. Turncoats

Sunagakure was under a voluntary lockdown, as the typical traveling nighttime sandstorm was on the move. People shut themselves inside of their homes, and the airtight houses were still as the storm passed over. Those that did not take shelter ran the risk of having their exposed skin grated and peeled, or of being suffocated in the deeper gusts. But the sand amount was low and the wind was not too fast, so the danger was not too terribly severe. It merely acted as a deterrent that affected many a schedule.

The Kazekage's schedule, however, was in perfectly normal order.

With ease, he traveled through the night. The wind whipped his hair into his face but the sand stopped short of ever bothering him. The grains would brush past as if they never made contact with him. Every so often he would find some merchant rushing home, and he would attend to them, sheltering them from the ragged sands. But for the most part, the night was quiet, stars glimmering through veils of dust. The moon was a sliver soon to grow, and thus the demon in him was comfortably quiet.

"Gaara-sama" The voice was muffled, and he blinked his eyes, looking over to the man who had approached. It took a moment of thought before he realized that he was looking at his teacher, who had wrapped his face to protect it from the elements, "I need to talk with you."

The red haired teen looked around, contemplating, "You want to go inside, Baki?" he gestured behind him.

"Sure."

The house that Gaara called his own had apparently been in his family for a few generations. It was large, multistoried and built to last. He hadn't honestly seen a lot of it, as he had little use for it. He ate breakfast in the kitchen when Baki made the siblings eat together. He was shown his bedroom a few times but never used it. Other than that, the only rooms he had seen were those of his siblings and the bathroom.

"Gaara-sama, it's about Yura."

"...Yeah?"

"Has he been acting strange lately?"

**xXxXx**

The sand was a bother but it was also his boon. The streets were empty, and the town was quietly hiding from the storm. Suna would be slow to react, if it even reacted at all.

The weapons were stored in an empty building not far from the holding cells. He had prepared them exactly to his master's specifications. Now only one task remained. And for once, Yura felt confident things would go well.

He was greeted coolly by the guards, after he explained his perfectly _innocent_ purpose, and was allowed to advance to the cell his dearest master was being kept in. But they were being monitored. It was a fly buzzing around Yura's thoughts that kept him from becoming truly at ease. Which was, in all consideration, likely a good thing. He had no space or tolerance for mistakes and his master would be even less inclined to accept them. 

The wind that howled over the outer walls of the containment facility did not touch its interior. Inside, it was still, the grit that had settled on the floor left undisturbed. The only indication of the dust devils that raged outside was the sound of the screaming sky and the unrelenting hiss of sand beating against the sides of the building.

Sasori was still and unmoving in his small, empty chamber. His hands were folded in his lap, one leg hanging over the edge of the cot, his back to the corner – in fact, he was sitting much as Gaara had found him before. Whether it had been minutes or days ago since the Kazekage visited, he couldn't much tell. He'd never been very good at keeping track of the hours, and in this utterly timeless, torch-lit box of concrete, he wouldn't have been able to say for sure if it were day or night. How _maddening_ it was, being stuck in such a suffocating-still void of absolute _nothing_. The only thing that kept him from tearing his hair out at its roots was a constant, steadying thought:

_I'm getting out of here. I'm getting out of here. I'm getting out of here._

Yura would come, and he would come soon. Certainly. Then he would break free of this despicable place, with his trusty servant at his side, and escape to whatever life awaited him. _Yes_. Yura would come. _I'm getting out of here. I'm_—

A distant gate creaked open, and a stray breeze lifted a strand of his hair. There was a muted mumbling of voices.

Briefly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

_Yura_.

Ah, there he was.

It took a great deal of restraint as Yura approached Sasori's cell with that sealer, to not give a revealing expression. A smirk, a laugh of triumph, or even just a smile in greeting his adored master. His face, stony and stoic, hid the happiness at succeeding thus far.

The puppet master did not bother to stir from his place, voicing his question from where he sat with a tilt of the head and a lift of the brow.

_Do you have everything?_

The look Sasori gave him was almost enough to break his facade, but he held to it.

"I will be transporting you to an assembly." He announced, dully.

The sealer looked to Sasori with a bland distaste, "Please approach the bars."

"Hn."

Sasori's lip curled, his eyes narrowing, but he removed himself from his rather comfortable place on the cot with no other displays of irritation or reluctance. Partly because being compliant was the only possible way to escape. Partly because he'd said please, which was (for the time being) an acceptable substitute for begging.

His shoes left faint prints in the sand-dusted floor, following much the same path they had when he'd approached the entryway of his cell who-knows-how-long ago to speak with his loyal servant. Now, here they were again. The escape preparations had been made. Everything was going smoothly and as planned. The guards were only aware of _one_ of the criminals in their midst, and completely oblivious to the other. The people outside were bundled up in their homes, covering their windows to block out the onslaught of wind and sand.

Yes, it was all going well. Freedom was so close he could quite nearly feel the chill of a breeze lifted from a River country stream.

The sealer (with his attention half on the prisoner the entire time) also approached the door. He made a quick set of hand signs before moving to remove the tag on the bars. It came undone with a snap and a spark, and he peeled it off as if it were just paper. The iron door clanged as the man slid it open.

Then the shinobi set to work on creating a second tag, this one for the purpose of sealing the prisoner himself on the way to transport.

Yura himself shot a most subtle expression at the puppeteer.

_Allow it, master._

After all, he could undo that type of tag easily. They just needed to get out the facility.

Sasori took note of the glance Yura slipped to him without responding to it in turn, but just the same, he stiffened. The look he directed at the sealer was both bitter and sour – a flavor most sharp and unpleasant. His teeth ground together.

He _hated_ to be constantly bound, his freedom restricted, his movements limited. A puppet he might be, but he was his _own_ puppeteer, and no one would pull his strings but himself. No one would yank him into any shape or form they liked and no one would dare to even imagine that they could. Never, _never_ would he be controlled by someone else.

There was no master of the puppet master of puppets.

But now, what choice did he have but to submit to this humiliation? Death, certainly. Permanent imprisonment. Neither was an option he would take while freedom was available.

He kept carefully still while the young and ignorant man wrought new seals.

His mind screamed. What was left of his heart curled like burning paper. But his body – the only part of him that anyone could or would ever see – remained as stiff and unmoving as stone and dead wood. Within a few moments a perfectly neat tag was stuck to his chest, one that would seal away any chakra he could attempt to use. It was flawless as far as seals went, and could not be removed by the unfortunate wearer.

Yura witnessed his master's muted discontent, and inwardly he bit back his impulsive hatred for the oblivious sealer. How _dare_ he?

It was simply a reaction to his master, but it was potent.

The only relief to such thoughts came when the prison worker drew back, and walked away, satisfied with his work.

"Follow me." He spoke, in a false command, his eyes asking his master for forgiveness for the temporary insubordination.

Everything was so carefully handled in regards to his master. He tiptoed as if barefoot on broken glass.

And he lead the way out of the dreaded facility.

**xXxXx**

"Remove it."

A low growl, nearly swallowed by the wind that beat down on them just beyond the heavy wooden doorway. Two words wrought of anger and palpable loathing, laced with a command that _under no circumstances_ would be ignored. Obedience would come quickly and quietly, without pause or debate, without hesitation or question.

Not that he expected Yura to refuse – far from it. But his sudden and distinct need to control something put extra bite in his bark.

"_Now_."

This time, there was a strain in his voice. A barely detectable tightness. Whatever might be missed in his voice, however, was visible in the rest of him: his brow was contorted, his eyes narrow. His lips formed a thin, hard line. At his sides, his hands were fisted and his arms stiff. His shoulders were too rigid and his spine was too straight.

He had tried time and time again, over the past few minutes, to remove the seal himself. It disturbed him to find his arms would not respond to the increasingly frantic messages he sent to them. The helplessness of the situation was, to him...painful.

How he _hated_ having to rely on something other than himself.

Yura winced inwardly at the puppeteer's tone. The sharpness of the order really should have been expected. He could tell his master was agitated and itching to get out of the village he had left so long ago. So he moved without speaking once they had buried themselves away in the cloaking sandstorm (his cloth headgear had to be wrapped around his nose and mouth). The seal was firm, but he knew which way to twist it.

His chakra flared for the moment, as it slid into the seal's lettering. The ink glowed for a moment, before going black once more. Reaching forward, he tore the tag off of his master's chest in one quick tug.

...It had been so long since he had seen Sasori.

The man had hardly changed at all during that period. He still held the appearance of a youth, with those large eyes and rounded, boyish lips of his...

"The cache I have set up is nearby." Yura mumbled.

He rushed off through the abrasive sand to lead his master along.

**xXxXx**

Back at the prison, there was a bit of a minor uproar amongst the staff.

"We were told that he was being brought before the council!" The flustered guard shouted.

"Well, that was a lie, obviously." Livid, his aggravation clear in his voice, it was dawning on Baki just what was going on.

Gaara asked the question on his mind, "Who exactly retrieved Sasori?"

"Councilman… Yura, Kazekage-sama."

**xXxXx**

Sasori followed Yura in relative silence. Relative because the low, constant growl that vibrated in his throat was relatively audible to those who were relatively close. The endlessly louder howl of the turbulent sky made him mute in the swirling dust. The thick, grating sand that rushed past and around him would've slowly and uncomfortably stifled him had he not been what he was.

Not for the first time, he paused in his fuming to be thankful he had no lungs, nor anything else that required a constant, clean supply of oxygen.

_Are we there yet?_

A petulant question, yes, but he had never been the type to be patient, and he'd already waited countless hours just to break free of the damnable prison. Some would say that, compared to the past hours, a few minutes was nothing – they would be wrong. _Any_ degree of time, be it seconds or days, was unbearable when it was spent waiting. Or, in this case, heading towards something awaited.

Yura was blissfully unaware of his Master's severe dissent, his focus entirely on the area around the two, searching for any sign of Suna Jounin ready to intercept them.

There had been none, when he finally arrived at the small building. It was nestled near an empty construction area, where the frames of several unfinished buildings stood. Yura fumbled with the push lock, quickly opening the door and entering, hoping his master would follow suit fast enough to prevent the storm from coating everything inside with the grit.

Sasori slipped inside – irritatingly _behind_ Yura – and spent all of three seconds swiping at the thick layer of sand that coated his once pristine cloak, dusting it away from his front and sleeves, where it was visible and aggravating. That was as long as it took him to realize, with a slow, not-quite-pleasant smile, that something quite agreeable was also in the room:

Puppets. Decent ones, too.

The room itself was stocked just as Yura had promised, with better quality puppets than the Kazekage had managed to procure, and spare weaponry he had managed to save from who knows how long ago.

The bits of desert ingrained into his skin were forgotten as he approached the jumble of skewed wooden limbs and bodies. Delicately, slowly, he knelt beside one, lifting one limp arm to examine it. His fingers glided over it with gentle precision, almost reverent in their touch. His hardened gaze softened. When he returned the inanimate piece of the deadly puzzle to its place on the floor, he did so as though it were thin and brittle crystal, easily broken. He turned his attention to the rest of the pile, his open palms drifting over it and his brown eyes flickering back and forth.

Nearly a week, now. Nearly a week since he'd seen well-made, functioning mechanisms such as these ones.

He stood, backing away a pace. His fingers were still spread, but no longer above the mess of arms and legs and torsos and lolling heads.

A ripple passed through his arms. The puppets shifted in their places as though a wave had washed over them. There was a great deal of creaking and clacking and grating as the unseen, unfelt water disentangled them. As it pulled away, it pulled them to their feet. Bodies shuddered into motion. Five – one for each finger – stood with their hand-crafted backs straight and their hand-crafted faces turned towards their master. Hollow gaps where their eyes might later have been regarded him silently.

So. These ones were one step from being new. Their loud, as yet unused joints and empty sockets attested to that – the eyes were always the last part to be placed. At least, they were in the quaint little village of Suna. Apparently the crafters preferred not to work on bodies that could watch them.

Sasori's sentiment was quite different on that particular matter – he liked them to see what they were becoming.

There were few outside of Suna who had acquired the taste for puppeteering. It was generally a very isolated art, and only those with developed taste could admire truly it.

Yura was one such person, having grown up around his fair share of puppeteers and their finely crafted works. And Sasori's art was the greatest of all puppeteers that ever were, and likely ever would be. So he stopped where he stood, awestruck, watching on in adoration of the master and his symphony of wood and motion he conducted. Creeping pleasure ran down his spine.

Sasori controlled the figures—likely unworthy to have his attention were it not in a time of such distress—with such ease, giving grace to the awkward, unfinished forms.

He had always been in agreement with his master.

_This_ was art.

"These are excellent, Yura." Sasori murmured, his tone indicative of an absent afterthought. There was an undercurrent of appreciation and, yes, pride. His subordinate had done exceptionally well. But now was not the time for petty praise. "Gather what you'll need. Quickly. We leave immediately."

His master's voice reached his ears and Yura's mind snapped (but not without a touch of irrational regret) back into the set of an active shinobi.

Even if his heart pounded in contentment for a second at his master's approval.

He grabbed a satchel off a shelf and slung it over on his back. He also procured a large map, and unfurled it for Sasori's viewing.

"We are near an area of construction in Suna that will be quickly passed through. From there were can travel against the wall. We can either scale it or approach the southern gate, master."

"Scale it." Sasori told him without hesitation. "The gateway will draw more attention to us than is necessary, and we'll need time to get out of the desert." Suna was the easy part – once they were beyond it, they still had the rest of the country to escape, and that was certain to be the most challenging of their endeavors thus far. Namely due to the irritating, backstabbing Kazekage – Gaara of the Desert. Demon of the Sand.

His features tightened at the mere thought of the boy, and he turned away from the map as though it were an image of the young Jinchuuriki himself. In a way, it was; the village belonged to him now. As its leader, he had become the protector of it, the defender of it...the face of it. Suna. Gaara.

"You can put that away, Yura." He muttered offhandedly, flicking his wrist. The puppets moved as one to halo him – a wring of fail-safe guards. "I'm confident you know your way around, and I haven't been gone long enough to forget everything I know, either."

Brown eyes settled on the councilman, and he lifted his chin in a wordless direction.

_Lead the way._

Without missing a beat, Yura discarded the map, leaving it open on a desk behind him. And in the same breath he reopened the door and bared himself to the winds outside once more. The wind was still there, ragged and unkempt as ever. He felt gratitude towards his heavy clothing, and moved out into the open.

He shifted into a shinobi's pace, and led the way through the steel and iron beams of the construction yard.

They did not go unobserved.

Sasori was not the only Suna shinobi capable of seeing through false eyes. It had been the first time in a while that Gaara had used his third eye technique. As unnecessary as he had deemed it living back in this village, it always seemed to come in handy.

Having set up a perimeter with various ocular replacements, a great deal of the city was under his watch. It was only a matter of time before he found them.

"They're at the area under construction near the south wall." He spoke, one hand raised to cover his right eye.

"You, get whatever squads you can and met us there," Baki ordered, picking out the swiftest in the group of four Jounin he had gathered.

"Let's go," Gaara lead the way, leaping off the roof top and dashing through the empty street before his past teacher could protest.

**xXxXx**

Though the puppets that circled him obscured a portion of his view, Sasori had no trouble seeing the skeletons of growing buildings flash by him as he ran, nor did he miss the piles of rubble and tossed sand that were piled at the bases of said buildings. The haphazard lines of metal and careless mounds of stone, darkened by the night and the storm, struck a cautious, nervous note in him. The bare frames were blurred by the winds that screamed over them. The whole site had been turned into a vague, shadowy shape. More than once, already, he had mistaken a jutting beam for a watching shinobi and stiffened in response.

As the minutes ticked by, however, his taught mind began to ease.

Everything was going well. He had puppets, his servant, his waiting freedom...and on top of it all, they had yet to be discovered. As far as the guards knew, he was going to some council gathering. As far as everyone else knew, he was locked up tight and secure in his cozy little cell. La dee da dee da.

A smirk flickered over his face.

_We'll see how happy they are when I come back with an army at my disposal._

Yes, despite it all, he did intend to come back. He had a score to settle with this village, and he wouldn't be content until every last man and woman and child was dead. Until he could take the limp, lifeless body of the Kazekage and turn it, too, into a puppet to toy with.

Then – and only then – he would be happy. Truly happy.

For a while, at least.

At the moment, Yura found himself still tense, unable to be at the same perfect ease as his companion. He had attempted to squash his skittishness with thoughts of escape and the freedom that awaited his master, the freedom that he was leading him to. Eyes on the prize, so to speak. But the shinobi in him hissed that it wasn't over till it was over, and the political planner muttered that he hadn't much of a plan if something did go wrong.

And perhaps it was a good thing that he kept his guard up.

At first, he disregarded the high pitched whistle that seemed to be growing louder, passing it off as merely the sound of the wind howling already.

It occurred to him, a moment before it was too late, that it was wind. Just of a different nature than nature's moodiness.

It was wind crafted into a screeching blade, a horizontal arc sailing straight for them. A shinobi's technique that he quickly and horribly recognized.

"Master!" was the most he could shout, before he leapt upwards.

The wind technique cleaved even the metal beams in half in its path.

Baki. A memory was attached to that name, a vibrant memory he was suddenly loathing himself for forgetting. No, rather, disregarding, passing it off as nothing. What a pathetic display for Yura, a councilman for so many years. He had learned so much of Suna politics and one thing he had learned was that looks across the table were as important as words spoken in discussion.

And Baki, ever vigilant, had suspected him. Even before he had any malicious thought against the Kazekage, he had been suspected.

Now he and his master would suffer for it.

Aggression, pouring out of him despite his long idleness as a politician, drove him. He drew a kunai from the folds of his robes and made short hand movements.

Baki was powerful, and rightfully so, having earned his place on the council as a war hero as much as a respected member of the village. Although he was never one to wave a bloody shirt, he was trusted as a military leader. Now he was leading. And it would take every ounce of Yura to resist him.

Metal rang out as beam fell upon beam, and several of the building skeletons collapsed upon one another, falling into a tangle of angles and heavy lines.

But Sasori would have yet another issue to worry about, in the form of several all-too-familiar limbs of sand, looping through the building frames to converge towards him and his puppet flock.

Sasori had a bare moment to register the cry of his subordinate, his voice snatched away by the wind. Then the young councilman had flung himself upwards. The puppeteer (master or not) had thought it prudent to follow his lead. A wise move, apparently, though not quite fast enough for the puppet attached to his ring finger – it, as well as the foundations of steel surrounding it, were sliced through quite cleanly, as though crafted of paper rather than metal and solid wood.

"_Damn_ _it_." His snarl was inaudible, but his thoughts were clear in his mind.

_How? How did they find us? When did they notice? _Why?

His eyes narrowed against the wind and his lips twisted into a grimace, he turned in the air, propelling himself off of the shoulders of his puppets. His cloak snapped through the air, alive and vicious. The four remaining puppets regrouped, spinning around him with their arms raised and their mouths open, as hungry for blood as he. Blades snapped out along their arms in a manner most effective, albeit crude.

Gravity had begun to work its magic on him when he noticed something that made his contained heart freeze:

Sand. Lots and lots of sand. Swirling, twisting, _living_ sand. Winding through the unfinished buildings, over them, around them. Animate. Moving. Groping for him through the rage of the storm as though it were not there.

Still falling, he had already attempted to turn and bolt.

_Not here. I can't face him here._

Cold terror. He was surrounded, here, by elements he could not control – nature was beyond his reach. This place, with these conditions, was not a battleground he was familiar or effective in. Loss was certain. Absolutely certain.

His shoes hit the ground. He spun around.

And paused.

_Is it? Is it certain?_

_Is a loss here really, truly certain?_

His mind whirled.

He had Yura on his side. Four well-equipped puppets. The closeness of a village full of sleeping citizens...His trump card. The weapons he had at his disposal were few in number, but used effectively, they would have a chance. No, more than a chance – certain _victory_. Absolutely certain.

Sasori's voice rose over the scream of wind:

"_Yura!_ Take care of the others! I'll deal with the boy!" His voice was raw through the sandpaper of the air, but clear. His instructions were simple. His actions were, like his weapons, few but effective - his arms jerked, and the puppets leapt ahead of him as he swung to face the oncoming battle. With one hand, he tugged at the buttons securing his collar.

The puppet master's expression was grim.

_I cannot die here, now. I _will_ not._

**Lightining Ougi: Gaara, Yura, Baki**

**NightmareTears: Sasori**


	13. Last Stand

Gaara walked calmly through the storm, his hair whipping into his face, his jacket twisting in the air.

_Sasori._

He hadn't expected another escape attempt from the puppeteer. But recalling that dry, cold expression on the other's face, his abject posture…

Of course. Sasori couldn't stand this village, and he would do anything – _everything_ – he could to escape.

And Gaara would stop him once more.

There were a few things to realize in this situation. Mainly, that Sasori was no longer sealed within a comfortable array of tags, that he had several puppets under his command, and as an aside, he had a bit of a score to settle.

Sasori's mind flashed through the patterns of this now-familiar enemy.

The sand, though capable of moving through the sky, was primarily on the ground. The ground would therefore need to be avoided.

An easy enough task with puppets on his side.

Sasori yanked the four into the air above him, following a second later and – much like before – propelling himself off of them one by one, launching himself higher into the turbulent air until his shoes slapped down on the wooden shoulders of the one that was suspended the highest above the site below. The wind ruffled his loose collar and tugged at his hair.

He held his arms out to the sides as though finding his balance, fingers splayed.

He knew his foe – he had learned how he worked. It would not be difficult, he was sure, to defeat him this time...but he would not make the dire mistake of underestimating the Jinchuuriki. Not this time.

He glared down at the shape of the boy below, untouched by the dust storm that raged around them.

_This time, Kazekage...this time, you will not be the one to walk away from battle._

Gaara could understand where the other's aggression came from.

Not that Sasori would ever really let that anger alter his judgment, he figured; the puppeteer was never really the type.

He himself was calm in the wake of the sandstorm, while Sasori hung in the air overhead. A gesture of his hand, and the sand beneath him clumped and heaved off the ground. If the puppeteer wanted to take the battle to the air, he would happily oblige.

He rose slowly up to his height, looking down on the near empty section of town below him. Empty, save for his old teacher and other Jounin attempting to apprehend Yura. But that fight wouldn't likely last much longer, so he turned his attention to the opponent that had singled him out.

_Sorry, Sasori. Can't let you escape._

It was just a matter of his loyalty to his village. No matter what he thought of Sasori, or what the Akasuna thought of him, that was that.

Although, it wasn't entirely impersonal on his end. That much he would concede to.

But for the moment he waited on his floating platform for Sasori to make the first move.

And make the first move he did.

One again, Sasori raised his voice over the wind. This time, however, he did not direct it towards Yura, battling below – his words were for his opponent, drifting in the air all but beside him.

"I'll be generous and give you two options, Kazekage," He called, fingers flexing. "Turn around and leave, or fight us and die. Either way works for me. A clean escape would be nice, but you'd make an excellent addition to my collection after you were dead. With your techniques, you'd suit my purposes just fine. I'm in need of a decent replacement for the Third you destroyed."

Bold? Perhaps.

Rash? Maybe.

Necessary? Completely.

His pride was in dire need of repair after the many beatings and batterings it had taken, and he was confident in the angry air, puppets at his beck and call and his loyal servant by his side. There was no discomfort or false assurance involved in the making of the ultimatum he had presented. He had every intention of carrying it out.

"Make your choice and make it quick, boy. I don't like to be kept waiting."

Gaara listened to the other's words without a single expression crossing his face. Blank. Calm. Steady.

He was in his village for this fight, and he would not be a fool anymore. But besides, for this fight, he had his true weapon at hand. The special sand that comprised his gourd. Fixed with chakra and blood and minerals stored over all his years of fighting. He was prepared this time. Not to struggle away from an aggressor, but to stomp down upon a recognized enemy.

"I'm not going to die today, Sasori." He called out, his low voice strained over the howling wind.

The other might, however, even if Gaara did not desire it.

For he answered the other's ultimatum, answered it with a whiplash of several immense, clawed arms darting through the air. They were jagged, crafted into the image of the beast that dwelled within him, an image that would certainly be of recognition to the puppeteer.

His weapons were made out of sand of the city of Sunagakure. And it was over Sunagakure that Sasori would face his end.

"Wrong ans—" —_wer, boy._

He didn't have time to finish. Real pity, too, because it might've been a bit intimidating if it hadn't been so abruptly cut off.

Of course, there was a good reason. A _very_ good reason.

_Sand. Claws. Demon._

The sudden, irrational – instinctual – terror that flashed cold over his mind barely failed to paralyze him. His reflexes, despite nearly a week of disuse, were in good enough form for him to flinch away, and for the puppets to flinch away with him.

Then his consciousness flared to life.

The puppeteer twisted to the side, jerking at the strings of the marionette upon which he so precariously balanced; the sole of his shoe skidded over polished wood for a moment before he recaptured his footing enough to leap away. Above him the puppets had formed another animate ladder.

Behind him, a blast of displaced air propelled him forward with unexpected force, and the jarring, hollow whack of wood against wood was loud even in the midst of the storm. A splintering crack broke through his thoughts, and one of his chakra strings slackened. Several somethings buried themselves in his shoulder and back. But there was not time and no need to turn around – he was too busy grasping for a secure grip, wooden hands lifting stiffly to assist him, the winds trying fervently to tear him away from the puppet he had collided with. They were not fortunate in their endeavor.

One arm wrapped securely around the neck of his weapon, perching on its raised palms, Sasori snapped around to face his enemy, his lips curling.

_My turn, you meddling son of a bitch._

His fingers slashed downwards. Two and a half equipped puppets – one nothing more than a one-armed head and torso – slashed through the wind towards their target, bristling with blades and needles that dripped thick and dark, tinted gasses streaming behind them through their gaping mouths and empty eyes. Living, deadly, soulless, _beautiful_ nightmares. At his beck and call.

Had there been time, Sasori might've paused to admire them.

Gaara frowned at the assault, aware of the poison and of the pointed weapons.

Sasori was not the only one well versed in his opponent's style of attack.

With a flick of his hand, he sent the tendrils of sand towards the puppets, one ragged hand for each wooden form. Fingers spread wide, they didn't even intend to crush, merely to catch within a cushioning trap of grit.

The real attack would come from the short, stark strike of the well packed sand now comprising the orb that formed his shield. But he would only move when Sasori's defense crumbled. Until then, he would crush the other's arms, or pin them back.

Sasori swore under his breath and jerked back at the strings, pulling away the puppet to which he clung and the puppets he had sent to attack. At least, two of them. The broken third he severed ties with. But not before it tore open – with a slice and a stab accurately aimed at one of its own hollow eyes – the canister of gas hidden in its wood-crafted skull. The blackened blade cracked free of the socket that had become its sheathe, and for a bare moment tainted air hissed out of the gap. Only for a moment.

The sound of its face exploding outwards was sharp and blunt, piercing and battering the ear. The almost soft, deep sound of the air that was abruptly displaced by dark smog. The brittle, sudden snap as carved lips and high, hard cheeks splintered outwards.

Only one of the other two had skirted away enough from the claws of sand to escape when the blast forced it back.

The other was not so fortunate.

Sasori scowled when the string resisted his tug, and pulled harder; he grimaced at the sound of a wooden limp popping free of a wooden socket. Or was it two limbs? No, no...one. He could feel it. But at this point, it didn't matter if it had lost an arm or a leg or two arms or two legs...or all four of them for that matter. It didn't matter much at all. Because poisoned puppets had never been and would never be effective against this particular adversary. _That_ was why he had requested a flamethrower.

Well, it was damn well time to use that flamethrower.

So he sent out the single survivor again. It would provide him the few seconds of distraction he needed.

Leaving it to the puppet that carried him to continue carrying him, Sasori freed his arm enough to tear at the buttons of his cloak, collar already undone; the fabric all but shredded beneath his frantic hands in his clumsy, wind-impeded haste. Stiff, unfeeling fingers held him steady while the storm raged. He growled and cursed and yanked – and with a last, spat word and broken clasp, the black-red cloak snapped out behind him, twisting and fighting in the air, connected to him only by sleeves. Grit-laden air stumbled over his chest and neck, sticking to the venomous metal cords that were wound tight in his stomach.

He spared a glance over his shoulder.

His eyes narrowed.

_I'll be the end of you, Gaara._

**xXxXx**

The whistling of wind blades became a constant in his fight, and his main focus, even if the occasional other Jounin attempted to step in. He had wounded one, sending a knife into her calve. He would have finished it, but Baki once more stepped up, driving him back with his invisible—but nevertheless lethal—attacks.

However, the storm was picking up, a result of the Suna Jounin's influence, no doubt, and it was becoming harder and harder to differentiate the storm from the arcs that could cleave him in half.

The large groaning noise of metal beams falling on top of one another was potent enough to be very distinguishable, though.

As he leaped to avoid the great weights falling down, he felt a burning slash across his stomach and shoulder.

There was no way to land gracefully at that point, hitting the ground and mixing his blood in the sand, feeling the grit in the gashes.

…Master Sasori. He was expecting a killing strike at that point, as he struggled to lift himself. It did not come, and the reason came in the form of an explosion.

**xXxXx**

Gaara had little to worry about the toxic clouds that the downed puppet produced. Well, that wasn't to say they nearly had him panicked, acknowledging the wind and the direction of it, but his former teacher was quick to act, manipulating the air and keeping the poison contained.

There. He could focus on Sasori, now.

Which was to take up all of his attention when he realized something very drastic was occurring to the puppeteer. He had stripped back his cloak, and even in the tremulous storm he could see exposed skin. That had to hurt. Merely exposing your hands was brutal in this weather. There was some odd patch over the other's stomach he couldn't identify…

With one hand, he clutched the puppet he had caught, and sent the great golem hand smashing it down into the ground. With the other, he broke the hand into fist sized clumps, and sent the missiles to strike the remaining puppet.

Sasori shook away the shredded chakra strings on his fingers when the two decoys were destroyed, one crushed against the ground, the other exploding in a coarse rain of splinters and sand. He pulled the last of his contraptions yet higher, the wind tugging at him, and shrugged off what was left of his cloak – it was snatched away by the storm with a great, sharp snap of fabric. The twisting black shape disappeared in the blackened sky.

A smile curled his lips. His brown eyes glowed with satisfaction.

_This...this is freedom._

Sasori unfolded metal-crafted, five-feathered wings and lifted his face to the turbulent air, arms spread wide as though to catch the battering of grit that skidded harmlessly over his skin. His red hair tangled itself in the sand. Three scrolls were furled comfortably against his back, waiting patiently to be used. The knit metal cords of his stomach uncoiled to expose a glinting, black-edged blade, and for a moment, he recalled broken glass and seeping poison in a room thick with fumes. Countless hours in a tile-walled room, saving people he had dedicated his life to killing.

And for _what?_

_Betrayal?_

No. He had not given away a fraction of his pride – of his ambitions – for _betrayal_.

The puppet beneath him shifted; Sasori crouched and was lifted to stand on its shoulders, knees bent and arms spread for balance. The serpentine metal that replaced his intestines buried itself in the unfeeling wooden neck beneath him.

His stance was stable.

His grin was wide.

His fingers twitched, all but puppetless.

Even with the air howling around him, the scrape of his shifting steel wings was crisp and audible.

_Still think you can beat me, Kazekage?_

Traitors and members of Suna alike seemed transfixed for the moment, watching as the puppeteer revealed a most feral and shocking creation. Gaara… could not immediately make it out, as Sasori shed his cloak and offered his skin to the open air. But the wings made of blades, something metallic that emerged from his stomach, those details he could see. It was an unfamiliar and distressing foe.

The blades, especially, gave the impression that Sasori himself had been crafted into one of the spring loaded devices he used as his tools.

_Puppets…_

The beast in him was suddenly very much awake, sending warning anxiety down his spine.

Yura himself looked up in admiration, knowing (though not to what extent) that his master was finally getting serious with the Kazekage. He knew where his loyalties lay at this moment, and every centimeter of his being cried out for Sasori to rob the village of the child they called their leader.

_He's caused you enough problems._

Though wary, and unknowing of the other's abilities, Gaara was tempted to go on the offensive. But once more he would not use his gourd's sand. No, he needed that as his defense, his perfect defense, in case the other may prove to be more than he could handle.

But he would remind the other just on whose terms they were fighting on.

Several sharpened tendrils sprang from the air itself, congealing out of the sand in the wind. They hurled themselves at the other, lacking the intricacy or design his demonic arms did.

Sasori kicked off of the shoulders of his last puppet with a thin smile curving his lips, throwing himself into the open, turbulent air. Ten steel blades snapped out to either side of him, already spinning, turning themselves into flat, glinting disks that sliced as cleanly through flesh and bone as they did through the wind. A pitched, metallic whine trembled above nature's roar. A poisoned song. A death warble.

Beneath and behind him, the abandoned puppet had long since plummeted to the ground. The crash it had made, striking the foundations of an unfinished building, had been muted by the wind. One arm had cracked halfway loose of its socket.

Sasori paid it no mind.

He no longer had to fear the injury of falling, and his wings were too hard and inflexible, too thin, to be influenced by the storm. When the rest of his body was tugged off-course, they corrected it.

As such, he zigzagged easily over the artless offense of the Kazekage. The air was his stage, and he danced in it with the ageless, timeless grace – the solid and immortal beauty – that puppets and puppets alone could possess. Eternal. Uninfluenced by the changing world. An ancient elegance that had never changed and would never change.

The puppeteer's smile widened to a grin.

His wrist twisted; a small, rounded pipe broke through the thin, pliable skin of one palm. The other, being a borrowed limb he hadn't had time to modify, remained useless at his side. It didn't matter – he would just put all of the fire through one hand, one arm.

Slicing through the air, the cord of his stomach whipping out behind him like the tail of some venomous serpent, he located the Jinchuuriki with wide eyes, unperturbed by the sand in the air. His mouth fell open, still twisted into a grin.

"I _told_ you that you would _die_ today!" It was part shout, part scream. A tearing, ripping voice. "That _you_ would be my replacement puppet! And you _will_ be! I promise you _that_! And I _always keep my promises!_"

His broken palm jerked up, trying to steady itself in the wind, to get a direct shot at the demon boy.

Always.

Always he kept his promises.

A sound was stinging in Gaara's ears, a grinding, squealing noise of metal moving at astonishing speeds. He had never heard anything like that before and it was making the Shukaku howl, between the cries warning him that he was facing something beyond his capacity and that if he wanted to survive he would release the monster at once. With a bout of effort, he quieted the creature, looked up wide eyed at the figure darting insanely towards him. And that look on his face. Sasori's dull expression was gone, replaced by a most bloodthirsty gaze that led to his own anxiety that squirmed in his chest. That yell. He heard it above the storm and the metal, and he took a single step backwards.

His lips were slightly parted, and his sand acted on instinct.

**It's a flamethrower, brat. He knows what fire does to you, and if you don't strike now, you won't be able to again.**

But at once, his chakra infused sand wrapped around him, forming a dark, cool sphere, the sight of Sasori disappearing.

Whatever fear in him that had been stirring instantly subdued, despite how the meaning of this technique had changed for him. There was no longer his 'mother's' sweet tones echoing in his head soothing advice and calming croons. Yet the position, the darkness and the tight air all about him made him comfortable.

Shukaku was just looking for an excuse to come out. He would defeat Sasori regardless.

Sasori's wings whirred faster in the air when the Kazekage hid in his sand-crafted egg. They would need to fight against two things now: the vicious wind, and the blast that would explode from his hand right— about— now—

_FFFSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA—_

Orange-yellow flames with a cool blue core lit the erratic, half-constructed, half-destroyed landscape below and around him, engulfing almost completely the ball in which his enemy had tucked himself. It was scalding hot, sun bright, and a metal beam a few meters too close began to bend and melt, gobs of it coming away in the fingers of the storm. The fire ripped through the air, tearing through the wind, splitting it in two. It all but stopped him in his path. The metallic singing intensified as he fought against its force.

He'd had to funnel all of the fire through one hand. Its intensity was twice what it would normally be, when filtered through two instead of one. His fingers were blackening, and he was thankful that he lacked nerves. The only reason he had not spontaneously ignited or melted in the heat was the fireproofing jutsu he'd placed on his person.

Thank Jashin-sama for fireproofing jutsu, as Hidan would say.

The sand crackled, snapped and hissed. Gaara could feel the chakra he had inlaid within the grains fade away in the face of that fire. Sand melted and fused together, becoming brilliant in color, taking on the hue of fiery orange. It could not become glass, it was melting. It was liquid. His shield was utterly collapsing down all around him, and for a brief moment he was idle in his panic. Any second now the heat would burst through and fry him. But if he tried to drop his defense and retreat, the flames would enter and fry him. There was bedrock beneath him as well. He couldn't duck under layers of sand.

Damned if he didn't, and damned if he did.

Outside the shell, limbs of sand burst upward, flinging themselves into the literal line of fire, melting into molten glass as they did so, trying to block out the firey onslaught, or mute it somewhat.

It didn't take long for Sasori to burn through the sand-arms the boy had conjured, hoping no doubt that they would somehow help him. The tendrils were weaker, even, than his defense was, and took fewer seconds to fall, dripping, to the ground.

The fire erupted over the sand-egg just a few seconds longer after that – then the jet wavered once, twice, and died in a flickering shower of sparks and flamelets that drifted harmlessly over his arm. On his back, one of the three scrolls he carried vanished in a flurry of crisping-edged paper.

He lowered his black-charcoal palm. A grin lit his face.

The Kazekage's shell was dipping, crushing in on itself, nothing but glowing red liquid, darkening as it cooled, gobs of it tearing away in the wind. Its molten, dripping sides had bent and folded inwards. Now it was becoming solid even as it fell, almost in slow-motion. A mass of heat that shimmered in the turbulent night.

He'd done it. The boy and his demon – _damn his demon, it didn't even matter that Pain would be furious at him for killing it_ – were dead. Permanently gone. Erased.

His shoulders, stiff with battle tension, eased.

_I told him to come quietly. He should've known better._

"Yura," He shouted offhandedly into the wind, relaxed, at ease. It was a casual command. All was well, and it was time to go. The worst of the battle was over. The Kazekage was dead. Finally. _Finally_.

The puppet master, in the literal heat of battle, dazzled and consumed by flame, had missed the small, black-clad shape that had flung itself from the wreckage in the brief moment he had taken his eyes away. In the half-second he had glanced ever so slightly to the side, aiming his destruction at his distraction, he had missed it.

Now he was coiling the blade-ended cord of his stomach. A satisfied smile alit gently on his face. His rigid defenses were lowered, now that the only enemy he had any respect for – fear of, even – had been successfully singed away.

Everything was going according to plan.

**xXxXx**

The heat had been terrible. Coarse, unyielding. A new and unpleasant sensation he would be sure to avoid in the future. His weakness, fire, had been once again exploited. But the claws of the desert, which had provided a momentarily barrier between the fire and his melting defenses, gave him enough of a pause. The back of the sphere had fallen out, and the Kazekage darted outwards, followed by a small cloud of grit. The edges of his jacket were singed. 

There would be no way to defend himself as he was. His private, most useful reserves of sand had been absolutely crippled, decimated, and he was horribly exposed.

He was expecting the puppeteer to rend that speared cord through his back as he rushed away from the flames, stumbling into the gusty darkness.

No attacks afflicted him, though, and when he looked over his shoulder, Sasori had stopped his attack.

He looked as if he were gloating. As if... it was a bare little thought, as if he had already won.

Did he know how much the young Kazekage's defenses had collapsed? Was he just stripping away the layers for a more satisfying kill?

No. Abruptly, Sasori was withdrawing. 

**xXxXx**

The servant had still not claimed his own kill, and was nursing a gaping wound of his own. A gash inflicted by an invisible blade, and the wound had since filled with grit. He was clenching his teeth as he fought. But it was occurring to him he might just die at the hands of the the other jounin.

The call of a smooth, cold voice over the wind had both him and Baki pausing, however.

It was a wonderful feeling, taking it all in, the fire, the pause in the battlefields, the sense of victory. His master had triumphed again, as he said he would. As he always did.

Baki called back first,

"Gaara-sama!" 

A kunai caught him in the shoulder, as his attention was sharply returned back to his opponent. Possibly too late. 

_I'll butcher this small trouble in your name, Master Sasori._

**xXxXx**

Gaara stared up at the puppeteer, blankly, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was in a most unlikely and fortunate position. Sasori thought he was dead. He had been somehow overlooked.

It was a smooth, instinctive motion, his remaining sand curled itself, pointed itself, to make a spear to match the one at the tip of the puppeteer's inner coils.

It wasn't anger, it was a sudden poignant thought. 

Another mistake, Sasori.

"Puppet Master." He called out over the wind, "I'm not dead yet." 

_So much for promises._

The desert spear sailed through the air, slick and frictionless. He had aimed it for the shoulder. To even up the arms Sasori had lost.

Said puppet master was not prepared – to say the least – for the voice that rose over the wind to greet him. A voice that he should never, ever have heard again, according to what he _thought_ he had known. He _thought_ he had known its owner and creator was dead. He was _supposed_ to be dead. Burnt. Ash and charred flesh.

Shock and confusion replaced his calm satisfaction. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open. His eyes flashed back and forth through the gritty darkness to find the source of the call. He realized too late that there was no time for searching; something was coming towards him through the storm-ridden sky, fast, _too_ fast. Unavoidable. Some short, sharp dart splitting through the air, coming towards him.

His features contorted in an anger that had come a few moments too late.

The howling wind was interrupted by a splintering, shattering snap of wood. His body jerked sideways. The black air swallowed the spinning shape of the arm that had been rent away from his shoulder.

There were no words to describe his spitting rage and fury, or the acidic hate that burned through his mind. "_You—!_" He snarled and spun and fought to regain his thrown balance. The arm he had borrowed flung out to the side. The blades on his back whirled. The cord on his stomach shot out, winding and twisting and swaying like the head of a snake.

The attack had been painless, but annoying – he would have to fetch back his arm before the dust devils fled with it.

He jerked his empty shoulder. A half-second later, something pale and slender sped toward him, slamming against him with a snap. This time, however, it was not the snap of breaking wood. Instead, the hollow click of two pieces fitting back together. He twisted his re-attached arm with a grimace; there was sand in the joint, and it was grating and uncomfortable. A low growl hummed to life in his throat.

The hum intensified, pitching itself into a scream, a roar.

"I _will_ kill you!" His voice was cracking, rough. "You and that demon rooting around in your _mind_, Jinchuuriki! I'll kill you _both!_"

His brown eyes were wide, circled in white. His voice had an edge that bordered on manic. He lurched and cursed and howled at the night, slashing ineffectively at the sand in that air while he spun, still searching for his target. The storm around him and anger inside of him were combining and disorienting him. His cool-headed calm had shattered. He was mad, beyond mad, _crazy_ with fury, and he wanted blood. Now. He wanted blood right _now_.

"And I'll leave your _corpse _for the _buzzards_ in the middle of your _damn fucking village!_"

Gaara had been expecting his surprise assault to simply shatter Sasori's shoulder, leaving some frayed splinters behind. But the puppets were built to withstand heavy force by simply coming apart rather than breaking. He should have known that, given all the encounters with his brother's puppets. They always broke apart, deceptively, only to spring back together when the moment was right.

But his own attempt had left him with no relief. Sasori had sprung back in a matter of seconds.

Yet, there was a relief to be had in the fact that oddly enough, Sasori still did not know where he was. The puppet master had flown himself into a frothing fury, lashing out at everything while the young Kazekage was silent and still in the midst of the storm.

It was almost baffling, really. Gaara stood nearly defenseless, except for the shred of his former weapon that had by this point in time slunk back to his side.

It occurred to him that he really needed to end this battle once and for all.

**xXxXx**

There was a brief grapple between the two Jounin, and Yura could feel the other's blood on his hand before his kunai was yanked out in the struggle.

Facing Baki in close combat was a mistake, even if he had caught the man off guard. Knuckles struck him squarely in the mouth, and he staggered backwards, tasting blood in an all too unsettling manner.

There was nothing to be done about it. Yura was a diplomat first. Baki was a shinobi.

It looked like he wouldn't be joining his master on the escape after all.

_Forgive me, master. I only wish I could have served you better._

And as he was expecting, he felt another white hot line mark across his chest, with a snarl of wind and one slender gesture from his enemy.

**xXxXx**

If Sasori had seen his servant fall, he wouldn't have time to make note of it.

Though the stronger of his sand was gone, Gaara would make up for quality with quantity. Quantity in the huge, wall-like mass, several meters across and two meters thick, that rose out from the storm itself, and hurled itself at the still searching puppeteer.

Sasori, in the midst of a scream and a slash, had little time to register the veritable mountain of sand that rose from the ground below. When he saw it rushing towards him, huge and heavy and possibly deadly, he spun around and shot off into the night, his wings cutting the air, escaping with the ease of a fly escaping a swatting elephant.

Or so he would've hoped.

Not for the first time, the storm worked against him. The spinning of blades was a metallic scream, his arms folded against his sides, the cord that extended from his stomach streaming behind him like the tail of some macabre kite - but the winds pushed him back just the same. They shoved him towards the oncoming attack, and then broke themselves against the sand. He howled, snarled, fought. But the grit that filled his eyes obscured his vision, and in a struggle to retrieve his bearings, he tilted slightly back...and a particularly powerful gust caught his exposed chest and tossed him as though he were a sheet in a breeze.

He stopped when it stopped, and it stopped when it collided with a roiling wall of sand.

Trying fruitlessly to wrench himself free, Sasori bared his teeth and howled his frustration at the uncaring sky.

The puppeteer's body absorbed the impact like a light shell being washed against the shoreline with the waves. He wasn't as damaged as he had hoped (lesser bodies were crushed and lesser bones broken) but Gaara could no longer expect anything but utter durability from Sasori.

The attack collapsed into a very firm grip, coiling around to get a good hold on each and every limb.  
Recalling the stubbornness of a certain Kaguya's frame and will, he wondered if even a full crush would blot out his life.

"Its over, Sasori." He called out, with a scowl.

And, for the second time, he was hesitating.

He was angry, at his village being endangered again. He was horrendously tired of the continued struggles.

But he was hesitating, even though his guilt had been quelled. 

He didn't _want_ to kill this man.

_Over? It hasn't even _started_ yet._

Sasori yanked and struggled, knowing it was utterly fruitless but acting out a fight just the same; the more he thrashed, the more attention his thrashing would attract. And, at this point, all he wanted Gaara to focus on was his wrenching, popping limbs. A joint came free here, snapped back into place there, came free again. Whatever he detached didn't go far, of course – he was almost completely wrapped in a less-than-comfortable blanket of sand, and not the inanimate kind, either.

The key was that he was _almost _completely wrapped.

Not _completely._

There was a small section of his chest still bared to the open air. That was all he needed.

Sasori snarled and cursed and threw a fairly large, vicious tantrum. Meanwhile, the part of him that was _real_ – the only part that mattered, in the end – was carefully wriggling free of the small, round crevice in which it had been wedged. There was one more chance for him. One final card to play. Because somewhere below lay an undamaged puppet. Its strings were still attached. As long as there was a puppet, there was something he could manipulate, something he could use, something he could _be._ Something he could _win_ with.

_Just a little more. A little further..._

_Yes._

With a final, bleeding scream, the body gripped in a vice of sand fell silent and still. Limp. Lifeless.

Its eyes were empty.

There was a hole in its torso.

A miniscule, cylindrical shape dropped downwards; a few feet from the ground, it abruptly jerked, following some invisible trail that led it to a slumped, shadowy shape tucked behind a half-constructed wall. The shape jerked when something hit it. The shape twitched.

_Yes, yes, YES._

Twisting his neck around and clenching his fingers, the puppet master peered upwards at the lean black shape of the Kazekage.

_It won't be that easy, boy._

Gaara frowned, biting his lip as he struggled to keep the puppeteer still. He could just try to finish it. It was perfectly in his power, and this time he could actually make the wood splinter. In the back of his mind, the Shukaku was continuously crooning, continuously prodding his host to simply clench down.

But with a sudden jerk and a rough cry, Sasori fell limp.

For a second, Gaara stared at the body, transfixed, confused, with his teal eyes wide. _What the—_He hadn't... Had Shukaku? No, He hadn't felt the sand jerk. Then was the puppeteer feinting? Just faking death to try and get the young Kazekage closer?

Uncertain, he took a step forward, eyeing the body curiously, completely oblivious of the small bundle that had fallen out of Sasori's torso. 

Rather, it was the eyes that held his attention. Or therein, the lack of them.

Shukaku noticed it before he did, snarling in discontent. The Suna nin whirled, blinking at the puppet that his demon had pointed out, stirring from where it lay half-hidden behind the skeleton of a construction. It turned to look up at him.

It had Sasori's face.

The puppeteer grimaced and launched himself into the air – he would have to move fast, now. He'd been noticed. While this body had been constructed for close combat (it was an ordinary puppet, after all), it hadn't been built to go head to head with the Kazekage. One wrong move...

_I could make a break for it. Now. While he's still confused..._

But, no. He couldn't run. It went against his nature too completely. This was a fight he still had a good chance of winning. He was going to win it. He just had to be careful about it.

He felt for every hidden contraption hidden inside of him as he sliced through the turbulent air, narrowing his eyes at the Jinchuuriki as he ran over several scenarios that would lead to the boy's inevitable demise. He added variables here and there. Considered weaknesses. Considered strengths. Puzzled over how to use both to his advantage.

He knew, of course, that the odds were against him. But that was nothing new – they _always_ were.

Gaara was puzzled, thinking hard, trying to ponder out what had just happened. His brow was notably furrowed, eyes narrowed in a minor frustration. It looked as if Sasori had squirmed out once more. For all his supposed experience with his brother and Sasori, the puppet master kept pulling one surprise after another.

But for the moment, Sasori hung poised, and it occurred to Gaara that he was merely wondering while Sasori was likely planning his next move.

Unlike himself, who had a continued tendency to make things up as he went along.

He still had chakra, however, he still had energy even if his more intimate defense was gone. Even without Shukaku's aid – which, naturally, the beast was dangling in his mind's eye. Of course he could never accept any offer of the demon within the walls Sunagakure.)

This puppet body was different. The metal wings Sasori had before were gone. So was that intestinal rope.

....it didn't make any sense. 

He sent his energy once more out into the sand, gathering up a defense to be ready. This time, he would let Sasori make the first move.

He knew the puppeteer wouldn't run.

Sasori tilted his head a minute degree to the side. Somewhere in his left arm something clicked into place. Somewhere in his right something else grated and hissed. A faint smile touched his new, chakra-shaped lips, and his eyes narrowed.

_Let the final game begin._

_The final _masterpiece.

He surged upwards into the angry winds, flung on his own strings, tilting his body to make the best use he could of the powerful gusts around him – he would have to be much, much more careful now that he was deprived of his wings. But he had some degree of experience manipulating his path over air currents. Not much, but some. Enough to get him close enough to his query to, for instance, do _this_—

When the distance was just barely narrow enough (_very_ barely; one could only get so far on storm winds) he swung his right hand forward and – in the same movement – yanked it from the wooden wrist with a sharp snap. There was a moment of nothing: just the tumult of the tempest, swirling around him. But then, with a sudden, soft sound not unlike the pop of a cork and the following amplified fizz of a champagne bottle, a gush of poison vapor rushed from the gaping hole at the end of his arm. A dark, angry cloud ripped through the sky. A shade darker than he would normally use, actually. It was made by Suna puppeteers – it was numbing, and it was immobilizing, but it was also far less potent than his own. Not _quite_ deadly.

Just the same, it was poison. Nothing new. One of his favorites, and something the boy was, by now, surely familiar with. But it might do _some _good, with his defenses as damaged as they were. A faint whiff _might_ get through, and throw off his balance and organization of thought and accuracy of attack. It might. Just a bit.

A bit was all he needed.

But even _without_ a bit, he would be just _fine_.

Sasori, his thoughts vicious and a grin on his face, disappeared into the inky blackness of his poison and felt the chakra strings threaded through it, using them to feel his way through the sightless dark. He would not be blind. Even now, he knew, his target was only slightly above and ahead of him, and when the poison washed over the Kazekage, his _exact_ location would be revealed. And then...and _then..._

The puppet master flicked out the blades concealed in his arm, anticipation in every hand-crafted line of his body.

_Then, he's mine._

It was sound that first alerted Gaara to the attack, and he tried to back up as best as he could, several short hops before the wind caught up with him.

Poison clouds, and wild wind. Never a stable combination.

The cloud had contorted as soon as it entered the air, twisted by the whipping winds. It resisted, at first, but it spread, giving the puppeteer the cover he no doubt was betting on, and enshrouding the young Kazekage.

Gaara brought his hand to his mouth, having no chance to inhale before he was forced to hold his breath. Therefore, it was unlikely he could do so for very long. 

_One._

The poison. Would the poison be blown through the streets of Suna? Would it poison the townspeople yet again? 

_Two._

…No, not likely. Everyone was indoors, the poison would be blown across Wind Country before anyone would come outside. 

_Three._

At four seconds his chest was clenching from his held breath. Even his eyes were stinging in the dark, sharp smelling cloud, and it was to some distress that he could no longer see his foe within it. Four tendrils of sand rose up around him, pillars for his defense. His current control was sand was slightly disoriented, it would be difficult to try and reform his ultimate defense. Not only that, but the sand would be weak.

Oh well. If he couldn't see Sasori, he would just use wide ranged attacks. In an attempt to draw his opponent out into the open, he sent small fist sized projectiles out of his collected sand, against the wind. They darted at high speeds at random through the cloud, and Gaara continued to bolt backward, to escape the poison.

Unfortunately, the wind made the toxins keep pace.

Sasori, in his cover of black poison, suppressed a chuckle (couldn't be given away at the last moment by making a noise) – the boy was flailing blindly. And while neither could see in this murk, he could _feel_ his way through it. Everything it touched, his net of strings clung to, and the information of shape vibrated through the thin multitudes and back to its master. He could see everything in his mind's eye. The battlefield, wind-tossed and smoke-obliterated, was as visible to him as it would've been on a clear, bright day.

That made it no simpler to dodge the flying, darting multitudes of sand bullets slicing through his darkness.

He twisted and jerked, swerving and yanking himself out of speeding, erratic pathways. His smile faded into a grimace of concentration. He was aware of his time limit and aware of his target, aware that one hit from these zigzagging blocks of sand would draw the attention of his query, aware that one hit was all he needed to deliver to win this fight. One solid hit. That was all he needed. Just _one_, and the boy would be at his mercy. One hit. One. _One_.

Something whizzed past his face. He twitched backwards.

Something else slipped at a sharp angle past his elbow. He flung his arm upwards.

The air just in front of his stomach sang, and he felt a current brush the wood as the object zipped away into the gloom.

_Only a little further._

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Twelve. Ten.

Four sand pillars ahead - Sasori mapped out in his head a plan to slip through them and squirmed to avoid another bullet.

Nine. Seven.

Gaara's sand hurtled forward, not striking anything as it shot through the cloud of smoke.

His eyes were watering, his brow creased in his tight concentration, his frustration and at the irritating feeling of not being able to breathe. His throat clenched, and dared him to inhale, begged him to inhale.

_You're mine,_ the puppet master growled silently, and a blade clicked into place. He knew that, had it been visible, its edge would've been black and shining, rich and deadly and pungent with poison. A weapon worthy of fear, worthy of the paralysis and subsequent death it would cause...worthy of bringing about the end of this wretched boy.

_This is no good._

Gaara kept thrashing into the cloud, but nothing seemed to be connecting, not a single strike.

Perhaps Sasori had darted out of the cloud, or perhaps he could see where Gaara could not. Perhaps he should just retreat back, and attempt to rebuild his weakened defenses. Because at this rate, he was going to gasp, he couldn't last much longer and Sasori was—

A very, very distinctive sound reach his ears, A familiar sound, one he had heard many times while dealing with Sasori. A knife sliding into place, an internal mechanism within a puppet.

In his passionate fury, in his bloodlust, Sasori had forgotten one thing:

The click.

The faint, damning sound his object of murder made when it locked into place.

In an almost thoughtless gesture, the four pillars of sand around the Kazekage spiraled out into the cloud of poison, all drawn in to the estimated spot of the sound, the clue the puppet master had unintentionally given. Gaara gave room for mistakes in his aim, but each pillar converged, and quickly.

Sasori was already arcing forward to strike, a triumphant grin on his face, his whole body tensed and taught with a mixture of premature elation and bloodlust, when the sand crashed into him.

There was a sharp snap as his chest cracked, and he felt his heart loosen in its cavity. His vision grayed. The left side of his body slackened, the arm that had been a mechanism of death a moment ago falling limply. The cry ripped from his throat was rough and strangled. He blinked, shook, trying to clear his sight, and struggled ineffectively.

It happened too quickly – one moment his victory was certain, every fiber of his being focused on the boy, every string trembling with anticipation where it clung to him, his blade in place and hungry for flesh. Then he was smashed. Then he was crushed. Then arms of desert sand slammed into him with the force and weight of blind attack, rough and damaging. The sudden impact had shocked and stunned him, and now, coming to his senses, he realized something: his strings were gone. Cut. Severed. Dropped. Lost. He was blind and helpless, a broken puppet, and...and...

Sasori realized, with growing horror, that he was bleeding.

_Bleeding_.

A sliver of broken wood had sliced into what was left of his humanity, and he could feel the damp, cold trickle over his body, slick and dark. Blood. _Bleeding_.

He froze, silent and bewildered.

It hurt.

It _hurt_.

The sound that he made was, at first, low and keening. The blood continued to leak out of him, and his voice swelled into a shuddering howl, from there into a scream. A scream that echoed off of the emptiness inside of him, lending him two voices, three, four, all of them breaking, broken. They were rough and sharp and filled with animal hurt and human agony and a faintly puppetlike metallic ring.

Sasori shrieked his pain.

The sound cut off with a gurgling choke. He felt a faint pulse, and more thick, cold blood spilled over his chest and stomach. He trembled in the sand that compressed his body, blind and shattered.

_It's over. It's over. It's over._

_It hurts._

_End it. Please. Just end it, kill me, _kill_ me..._

Gaara felt his attack connect before he heard the sound of solid striking wood. He felt the other's body resist, then be knocked back, far back.

And then he heard the noise. It was... a sickening one, reminiscent of bodies breaking. An shelled insect crunched under a boot. Gaara knew that sound well, having made so many aching bones cry out in similar tones. It sounded like a rib cage flattening. Collarbones twisting. Heavy, heavy thigh bones splintering. 

And for the first time, in a long time, Gaara recoiled at the sound.

He had not... he had not meant to be so forceful! 

His eyes widened despite the gas still blowing into his face. The four tendrils of sand relaxed against Sasori's broken frame, softening into a claylike grasp. He could touch – see! the damage in his mind's eye. 

Until another sound filled the air, one that paled his face and his hand quaver.

Sasori was screaming. 

Sasori. The puppeteer. A sworn enemy. A stoic of a man, perhaps even more than himself, was screaming. It was a chilling cry, with the Akasuna's familiar voice distorted into something much more disturbing.

He tried to draw the puppeteer closer, in his distress, to try and look at him, to see how injured the man was. 

At the back of his mind, the creature was sneering. 

**You did it, brat. You squashed him rather well. Why are you so frightened?**

I did not mean to harm him like that. 

**You meant to kill him.**

I...not like this.

But as he pulled the limp yet still screaming body of Sasori closer, Gaara could almost see, almost see...

Blood. Sasori was cracked everywhere and there was blood running down him and he wasn't expecting to ever see it.

Gaara gave a sharp inhale, in his shock.

Only to give a deep cough, in the sudden realization of what he had inhaled. The cough gave way to a gasp, as he struggled fruitlessly to expel it from his lungs. No—

The poison's effects were remarkably fast, and Gaara's grip of sand crumbled like aging stone.

When Sasori felt the sand ease its crushing hold, he whimpered – _whimpered_. His mind begged for death but his body could produce no sound more coherent than a low whine, mewling and pathetic. His bleeding heart wrenched and his empty stomach lurched at the thought of what he had become: helpless, weak, and broken. He could not live like this. He simply could not _live _like_ this_.

Then the sand was falling away from him, and the empty air took its place. Had the boy breathed in, finally, when it was entirely too late? Perhaps. It mattered not. He was dying, and it was happening slowly, and painfully, and the poison cloud wasn't fatal anyways so there was no triumph, and there wouldn't have been even if it _was_ fatal due to the prodigious supply of antidotes he'd left behind, and so his efforts had been _entirely_ in vain, and now he was dying. _Dying_. He, the eternal artist, his body built to last forever – _forever_ – and he was falling through the air, broken and bleeding and dying and it hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt worse than any pain he'd ever known.

_Maybe not any pain_, he amended silently to the raging sky, black with poison, laced with sand, tumultuous with storm winds and a distant roll of thunder. _When mother and father died...when I _knew_ they were gone...that might've been worse...might...maybe..._

Sasori closed his eyes, wondering when the ground would strike him, wondering why it was taking so long. Perhaps the Kazekage was controlling still the airy sand that floated down with him, making the fall slow and ineffective and undeadly. Perhaps the red-haired demon child would enjoy his foe's final agonies. Perhaps he would sit to the side (or perhaps he would float in the air) smiling with bright, black-rimmed eyes while the greatest puppeteer known to their world bled out onto the ground. Perhaps he would laugh.

_Kill me. Kill me. Why don't you just _kill_ me?_

_Please._

Please.

Then he hit the ground.

The soft sand beneath him puffed up and outwards, swallowing and softening the impact.

His body shuddered and creaked and cracked, but not too much. Not enough. The heart was no more damaged than it had been before, the sliver of wood that had cut into it still comfortably in place, leaking out his cool, dark blood.

He had not been durable enough to withstand the attack, but he was still easily strong enough to bear the fall.

_No...No, no, no...No. _No. NO. **NO.**

_LET ME DIE! DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU, JUST LET ME DIE!_

_LET ME DIE!_

_Just let me die!_

_Let me die._

_Let me...let me...die..._

_Please...let me die..._

His vision faded from muted gray to consuming black, and his thoughts drifted into nothing.

**xXxXx**

When Baki arrived on the scene, what he saw was immediately distressing. Piles of sand scattered about, with a number of puppets as well.

Most troubling, however, where two bodies were lying on the ground near each other, both with the characteristic red hair.

He recognized his Kazekage first, and that gave him the most distress. He landed near the teen, and after setting down another body he had carried, knelt down by him.

Gaara… appeared to be breathing. As he turned the boy over, Gaara seemed semi-conscious, teal eyes rolling behind half mast eyelids. However, his limbs were stiff and unresponsive, and resisted as Baki shifted him onto his back. It reminded him, unnervingly, of rigor mortis. But no, Gaara was alive, he confirmed it by feeling the boy's steady, yet slowed heartbeat. It appeared as if his ex-student was poisoned, for other than his incapacitated state, Gaara was more or less unharmed. He faintly recognized the symptoms. Either way, Gaara was wounded, but this time within his own country.

With that established, the Jounin turned his attention to the second fallen shinobi.

At first, he almost wanted to pass it off as merely one of the nuke-nin's wrecked puppets, but it was giving off chakra… and it was bleeding.

Delicately, well knowing of puppet's tendencies of being spring loaded with weapons, he nudged the wooden human over. It had Sasori's face… that was certain. Looking further, the blood was oozing out from something throbbing in the chest, marked by Sasori's own seal. For a moment, Baki considered.

_Tch…_

With a bit of maneuvering effort, he lifted his Kazekage over his shoulder, and picked up the body of Yura to do the same.

The mysterious puppet was held under the arms, and the Jounin headed off to Suna's medical ward.

**Lightining Ougi: Gaara, Yura, Baki**

**NightmareTears: Sasor**


	14. Aftermath

"...just completely unlike _anything_ we've ever seen before. A puppet, but a puppet with a chakra source. It seems to be located in the heart, and—"

"Heart?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. I use the term 'heart' very loosely here...it's more like a flesh and blood, uhm, _core_. It's impossible for puppets to control puppets, you see, they have no minds and no chakra of their own, but somehow he would seem to have _almost_ mastered it. It's just extraordinary. _Extraordinary_. And when you take into consideration his technique, I wouldn't put it past him to become a complete, free-living puppet, given time. But, as is—"

"I understand. You healed him?"

"My people and I. Yes. As much as we could, anyways. He...he's not quite as easy to...well, repair would probably be a more accurate term. We can't _heal_ him, because he doesn't really have skin or muscle or anything. Even the core...the blood is more like oil in a machine than actual blood. It does seem capable of regenerating the, uhm, the not-blood it lost, though, which is fortunate...I'm not entirely sure what we would replace it with if it wasn't. The rest of him was mostly a matter of fitting him with new limbs and binding together what it wasn't possible to remove."

"Such as?"

"Well, his chest, for one thing. We weren't entirely sure what to do with that. The core was coming loose, and the wood was shattered, but we couldn't exactly take it out because, well, we didn't properly know how. So we just sort've...patched it all together. It won't hold up very well if he gets into another little fight like the one today, but we both know _that_ won't happen, so—"

"And what of his heart?"

"What?"

"His heart. You fixed it?"

"The core? Oh, yes. Yes, we fixed it. It was rather delicate, though...it had a splinter in it. A very large splinter. A few, actually. We got them all out, of course, and sort've bandaged up the rest. Didn't want to stitch it because we weren't entirely sure what that would do to him, and—"

"He's stable?"

"So far as we can tell. We can't exactly monitor his pulse or brainwaves or anything – not even his _breathing_. No lungs, you know. For all we can tell you for certain, he could be dying or he could be comatose or he could just be taking a long nap. Or he could be awake. It's impossible to say."

"...Very well."

"Is...is that sufficient, Chiyo-Baa-sama...?"

"Yes. More than sufficient. You've done quite well, dear, all things considered. You and your team. Back to work, then—"

The young, eager medic paused in the doorway, regarding the grizzled old woman with peculiar, concerned, confused eyes. "But..."

"Yes?" Chiyo arched a brow and narrowed her eyes, halfway leaving.

The medic frowned faintly, stumbling over her tongue. "Do...do you not...well, not to be rude or prying, you know, I was just...I was sort've thinking, uhm, you might, uhm—"

"Out with it," the elder woman said flatly, clearly wearied of the conversation now that she knew all she need know.

"Do you not wish to know the condition of the Kazekage...?"

Chiyo considered it for a moment.

Did she wish to know the condition of the Kazekage? He was young, and he was strong, and he was the leader or her village, and when he was an infant she sealed a sand demon inside of him. He was the cause of more pain and death and misery than anyone in the village...With the grand exception of her grandson. But unlike her grandson, he had sought to reform himself. And, thus reformed, he had taken when little remained of her small family and he had beaten it into the ground, cracked it, smashed it, sliced its heart open.

"No." She said very clearly and steadily, turning away from the medic, whose expression had changed to one of bewilderment. "No, I do not."

And then she walked out.

Outside, in the hallway of the medic ward, the same jounin that had brought all three bodies there was pacing about. Baki was a bit of an unusual sight to see pacing and flustered, since he turned rather exaggeratedly when he switched directions, and he made a constant effort to fix some unknown fault with the cloth in front of his face. His eyes were set upon the tile in front of him.

What an assembly of statuses they had. One dead, one down, and one fine.

Though... he hadn't checked up on the puppeteers state, today. He had been too busy being asked to oversee Yura's...postmortem interrogation, for lack of a better word.

He looked up, however, hearing footsteps down the hall that did not sound like a nurse's.

"Elder... Elder Chiyo." he managed to say, stopping to give his traditional bow of his head.

"Baki," She nodded curtly to him in response, reluctant to pause but doing so just the same. She owed a small something to this man; he had brought Sasori's broken, bleeding body back with him, for some as yet undetermined reason. But, reasoning aside, he'd done it – for that, she owed him her brief attention, at the very least.

"You are well, I hope?" She inquired with polite interest, silently hoping for a swift end to the conversation.

Baki was old enough to have known Chiyo before she had left Sunagakure fifteen years ago. He had been young at the time, but he remembered, and treaded as carefully around Chiyo was the other, older councilmen. 

"Sunagakure is in distress." he answered, simply, trying to sound less than exasperated, "Since a councilman is dead, and not only that, but was a spy." To say nothing of the brief Kazekage scare, but the village security issue was a bit more pressing. 

"I myself knew Yura for some time." He gave his head a light shake, trailing off a bit in the thought. They had been peers, after all, the two of them.

"And... Sasori." an even more delicate subject, "What is his condition?"

"Stable, they think," Chiyo glanced back at the (now closed) door of the surgical chamber they'd placed her grandson in, a faint crease in her brow as she reflected on the young medic's words. "It's impossible for them to monitor anything more than his heartbeat, and even that is...not entirely reliable. But they are...fairly certain he'll live."

_Live?  
_

_There's nothing alive about him. Just wood and a face and a heart filled with blood that has the consistency of tar.  
_  
She added, in a dark afterthought, "Assuming it can be called living."

**xXxXx**

It was a dark, dry little room with sand that softened the stone corners. He sat on one side of the small table, and miniature Shukaku, on an oversized stool that still had his girth drooping over the edges, sat on the other. Between them lay the shogi game, which was, to Gaara's surprise, was coming to an abrupt end.

Taking the small piece within his huge, fattened fingers, the bijuu moved it across the board. The bishop, traveling diagonally, came to a halt right where Gaara's king was. With his forefinger, Shukaku brushed the king out of the space, and placed down the bishop. 

Gaara blinked down at the chessboard, in disbelief. Somehow, he hadn't seen how overtly exposed he had left himself. Well, he still didn't believe he had.

"**I win**." the demon rumbled with a jagged smile as he lifted the boy's king off the board. 

However, Gaara caught his hand with both of his, midway, "That's not a legal move..." 

"**No, brat, that was perfectly legal."**

"You had to call check first," the Suna nin protested, weakly. 

"**Actually**," the beast reached with his free hand to scratch at his chin, "**I don't have to."**

"You _said_ you would." 

Pausing, Shukaku seemed to consider it, "**Well, you forgot how the silver general worked again and made a bad move halfway through the game, so.... technically you already lost**." 

Gaara always forgot the silver general. Either that, or how many spaces the knight went. 

"You said you would tell me if I made a bad move!" 

"**I say a lot of things, kid**." 

Without another pause, Gaara swept his hand across the table in a short, sharp movement. The game board went flying, the little wooden pieces clicking as they bounced across the floor and struck the wall. The Shukaku stared after the board, ears slightly downward and jaws moving without any speech. It pleased the demon slightly, though, in some vague way. At least the brat could still get angry with him. Good to see the old hate still manifested itself in some form. God knows where else the kid had it hiding, though. With a low snarl, Shukaku commanded the sand to pick up the set. Little tendrils propped up the pieces, and they were quickly set up in the starting position on the board.

"**Don't want to play another game then, brat?"**

Gaara brushed the hair out of his face, giving a tired sigh, "I'm going to wake up, now, actually. I feel better." 

These little sessions were required for Gaara whenever he was knocked out, no matter how much he hated talking to his bijuu. If he wanted to, he _could _just roam the halls of his memories (though only the halls of years twelve and up were ever treaded upon, even in his waking hours) or even drift off into his subconscious and _dream_. But, of course, as soon as he did so, the Shukaku would waddle up and seize control of his body and snack on his soul while he was at it. So instead the two of them played games (to avoid talking) and Gaara kept an eye on the demon. This way, his unconscious body – as a sleeping body would be seized regardless; sleep was submission, unconsciousness was an unwilling state – would remain still, and of little threat to anyone in Suna.

"**Have fun with that..." **the beast sneered, as it tossed Gaara's king back onto the board.

His eyes cracked upon, flinching at the sterile light of Sunagakure's hospital. His eyes squeezed shut, and he blinked several times before he dared to reopen them. Well, apparently he hadn't been grievously injured, he noted as he looked around. He wasn't wrapped up in anything, just in a neat little cot next to one of the hospital's few windows. Shaking his head to banish the rest of his drowsiness, he sat up.

The worst of it was a little stiffness he felt in his elbows. What had happened to him? 

Oh, right. Poison. 

He remembered inhaling it despite his every attempt to hold his breath, but that had failed because he had seen – 

_Sasori._

His eyes widened and he looked around. What had happened to Sasori? Had... the nuke-nin been killed? Had he... died of the wounds Gaara had given him? Or had whoever had apparently rescued him (Baki, perhaps?) finished him off? 

He put his bare feet down on the tile, and got out of the bed. 

Opening and shutting the door behind him, Gaara began walking down the hallway, still in his hospital gown.

**xXxXx**

"Ah, well... I suppose he'll be placed back in custody when he recovers?" Baki asked, "The council is currently on a miniature witch hunt for other spies, so I think you're the only one who can make a decision on the matter." He wondered, inwardly, why Chiyo suddenly had a change of heart regarding her grandson, considering she had pushed hardly a few days ago to have him executed. It was not his place to wonder, though it surprised him that the elderly woman would change her position on anything. Or perhaps she hadn't changed her mind. Perhaps she was just continuing her usual hatred of any work coming from the Sabaku line.

Speaking of which, soft footfalls announced another figure trotting down the hall towards them.

Gaara looked dazed with his hair unusually ruffled, giving the impression he had only recently roused himself. Despite that, he seemed rather lucid as he greeted them, "Elder Chiyo. Baki." he muttered, giving a stout bow of his head.

"Kazekage," Chiyo nodded back stiffly, her jaw suddenly tight. \

_Crushed my grandson, broke him, hurt him, and then decided to just _drop_ him. The least he could've done was make it quick...that must've hurt him. That _must've _hurt him. You....you..._

"You are feeling well, I trust?" she inquired, once again with polite rigidity, wondering quietly why the boy couldn't have breathed in the incapacitating poison _before_ rather than _after_ he'd attempted to brutally mangle and murder the last of her family, the last one she loved (Ebizou aside, of course)...

Why did he have to be so...so..._durable_...?

Gaara gave a blank nod, "Yes, ma'am." He was tempted to say something about how the medics of Sunagakure were obviously one of the most trustworthy foundations of the village, in a dutiful manner of his own. After all, they had been carrying the village practically on their backs, ever since the Sasori incident had occurred... But he was only among his old Baki and Chiyo, so there wasn't much of reason to say it. Speeches weren't really his forte, anyways. No, he'd rather just skip to the point.

And the young Kazekage obviously lacked either the delicacy or survival instinct that his teacher had.

"What happened to the nuke nin Sasori?" he asked, looking from the elder to the jounin, a slight frown across his face.

_That's entirely none of your business,_ Chiyo snarled inwardly. Outwardly, the only indication of her irritation was a slight tightening of her lips and a slighter hardening of her eyes.

"He's been repaired as best as they are able," She answered reluctantly, casting a glance over her shoulder at the room he was being kept in presently. "They've replaced what they can and wrapped up what they can't, removed whatever weapons and poisons he had left, and learned some rather...interesting things along the way..." She frowned, this time more with a strange breed of concern rather than irritation. "Apparently, he turned himself into a puppet. A living puppet..."

She took a deep breath, and felt suddenly old.

He turned himself into a puppet.

A _puppet_.

When she turned her dark eyes back to the demon-child, they were emptied of any weakness or emotion.

"But he still has a heart. That's what was _really_ damaged – not the rest, though the rest was rightly shattered..." She shook her head, scowling. It was ironic, almost. Gaara had broken the heartless Sasori's heart.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Ha.

How incredibly unfunny.

Gaara perked up, eyes widening just a touch. His lips moved, soundlessly, wording the phrase his mind kept repeating. Alive. Sasori was alive. 

Somehow, he had survived the wounds Gaara had given him. Somehow, he hadn't been too broken, and the lost blood had— 

But what Chiyo said next near absolutely floored him.

"A... living puppet?" he repeated, his voice thin and airy. 

He remembered, faintly, what Sasori's body had looked like. The metallic wings. That spear. He functioned as if he was a puppet. But Gaara had thought of it as an exoskeleton – no. He hadn't known what to think of it.

"...how? Did he..." his gaze dropped to the ground, brow furrowing, stuck between some irrational relief and abject confusion.

"I don't know." Chiyo remarked roughly, more at herself than Gaara. "No one knows how he did it. I can guess, though: one piece at a time. For him it must've been one small step from a limb to an entire body, especially considering his specialization in turning corpses into puppets...Replace an arm, a leg, another arm. Substitute vital organs for bits of machinery until they're no longer vital...He rebuilt himself bit by bit until there was nothing left but a little flesh-and-blood core. He's just a puppet with a heart, now. A puppet and a puppeteer."

_A puppet with a heart. _That was it. That was all he was. The blood in his heart wasn't that of her child – it was barely even blood anymore. Just...oil in a machine. A machine.

"He's the most skilled puppeteer the world will even know," She murmured. "An artist in his own right...And now he's entirely inhuman. By his own hands, he's turned himself into a puppet...a mechanism."

_A mechanism with a heart!_ She thought desperately. _He still feels – anger, he feels, and violence, and hope, and satisfaction...I've seen it. If he can hate, still, then perhaps—_

_No. No. He can't. If he can, he won't._

_Sasori..._

Chiyo saw a small, red-haired boy, playing with puppets and looking out the window, waiting for his mother and father to come home. His amber eyes were deep and dark. Was it the shadow of sorrow, or the blackness of the waiting future? She could only wonder.

Yes. She felt old. Very, very old. Older than she ever had before.

"I...am tired," She informed them, aware she was wilting before them and utterly uncaring. "Have a good day, Baki. Gaara." She nodded, and then she turned to take her leave.

She needed time to think.

She needed time to grieve.

Her grandson was as good as dead.

Both Baki and Gaara both returned the nod, respectfully, but in silence. Both Suna nin were... shocked, to say the least.  
Baki himself was acquainted with puppets, having dealt with Kankuro over the years. Gaara however, had seen Sasori, while he worked with puppets, when he fought as a puppet.

He remembered, faintly, a question he had asked Sasori back when the puppeteer was toiling to make the antidotes barely a few days ago. He had asked why Sasori tried to make his puppets seem more human.

It was still beyond him. But he looked now, the memory of Sasori's forms still in his mind, and tried to understand.

Gaara felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up.

"I have to attend to the council. You...recover. The Kazekage needs to rest before he drives into the mess that's going on." Baki explained, forcing a bit of a reassuring look. Numbly, the boy bobbed his head in agreement.

As the Jounin turned to leave, Gaara turned to medical room he had seen Elder Chiyo glance at.

Sasori. He had to see Sasori. 

He approached and opened the door.

When the door creaked open, a medic looked up from his intent examination of the immobile body on the table. The look on his face – first blankness, then shock, then a peculiar kind of confused distress – was missed by the woman in charge of the care and repair of the puppet-puppeteer, bent over the body herself and just opposite of him, the black of her clean, white medical garb to the door. She either hadn't heard someone enter or wasn't paying attention. When the man across from her reached out to tap her shoulder with a spotless gloved hand, however, she looked up. She stiffened, seeing him, and turned when he pointed to the space behind her. The question in her eyes turned into a mask of ill-ease that mirrored her colleague.

"Oh-uh-uhm—he-hello, uhm—" She stuttered, clasping her hands in front of her and bobbing down in a courteous half-bow that conveyed, clearly enough, that as happy as she was too see him alive and (fairly) well, she was none too pleased to have him in the operating room...Or, at the very least, that she had something to attend to, and couldn't really be distracted right now. She couldn't. Not really. Because that heart-core..._thing_ (she shuddered thinly for a moment, wondering at the mechanical inhumanity of it) was seeping tarry purple-black blood again, though just a little this time, and she was devoted to making it stop.

Between this new trickle of whatever-it-was and the prior cleanup and earlier repair, she was looking a little worse for wear. Her white clothes were splattered and smeared with darkness, her gloves similarly tainted with the rather un-bloodlike fluid, a spot of it on her cheek and another smudged across her chin. Her hair was coming loose from its tie, and she was intensely aware of how terribly _hot_ it was in Sunagakure.

Of course, she still looked better than that thing on the table. That puppet that was alive. That fascinating, intriguing, impossible, wonderful, horrifying and terrible and nauseating _thing_. Yes, she certainly looked better.

He was completely unmoving, his eyes closed, his red hair darkened and stiff with the blood that had somehow managed to dampen it, and sand clinging to the now-stiff strands. His cheeks were shadowed in the harsh, unflattering light, and a trio of dark, irregular spots at the corner of his thin lips stood out starkly against the unnatural whiteness of his face. There was a hair-thin, almost invisible crack just below his left eye.

The rest of his body was like any other puppet...with a few curious changes, some of which she had observed to be taking place even as she watched, albeit very slowly. For one thing, his limbs seemed to...change. An arm she had popped into his empty shoulder socket, too big at the time, seemed to have shrunk down to fit. Something similar happened with other joints and whatnots she replaced. (Having noticed it, she had taken it upon herself to bandage plates of wood over his chest in the hopes that he might, somehow, adapt them to fix himself. It was one part healing and one part scientific curiosity.)

Another curiosity was the texture of his body. It was all wood – she knew as much, having built in parts of it herself. But once, plucking up a wrist to examine it, she was rather unpleasantly surprised to discover that it felt like..._skin_. Actual skin. Smooth and soft. But, taking up a scalpel (the scientist in her momentarily overriding the medic) and attempting to slice through it, she found it to be stiff and inflexible. The texture and even the appearance, given time, was that of skin...but the material was as hard and brittle as wood.

_How can that be?_ She had wondered at the time. Now, her curiosity was replaced with a constant, hollow fear. This _thing_ wasn't human. It wasn't a puppet. It was some kind of strange, completely unnatural combination of the two that was far worse than any imagination could devise...it was _sick_, that's what it was...sick. It made wood feel like flesh, and its heart was filled with blackness, and something so blatantly _wrong_ should _not_ be alive, but she just...couldn't...help herself...she had to keep poking and prodding and investigating...

Now the puppet master was just an immobile, flesh-but-not-flesh thing with a heart-but-not-heart staining the bandages wrapped around his torso. His eyes were closed. There was no forthcoming indication he was alive, but—

Well, she had confidence.

Gaara stood rather stiffly in the doorway, looking more like a half drugged patient than his usual cold, heavily dressed self. Though he could hardly be called 'regal' before, now he certainly did not look it. His arms and legs were quite bare, with only his hospital gown on.

He stared back at the two medics, noting how they reacted as if he had interrupted them. Noted. Did not apologize or turn to leave.

Instead, he approached, gaze traveling from the two humans to the... puppet on the table. 

The body was what made it to him. The jointed limbs, the chest cavities. No different than the ones he had seen in that Akasuna warehouse. The same joints that Kankuro's puppet possessed, that clacked so loudly. 

The blood stuff was everywhere. It was different to see Sasori up close, to look on his features rather than his weapons or movements.

He felt bad. 

Gaara did not know why, but he did. 

He had betrayed Sasori, and he still felt troubled about that. But he had to catch Sasori, back then. It was his responsibility. In fact, he has resigned himself to the possibility he would have to kill him. 

It was the debt, he decided to himself, stopping a meter or so away from the table. A painless death would have been part of his debt to Sasori, he had owed him that sort of half-dignity. But he couldn't even manage that.

The medic stepped forward, anxious and fluttery, wringing her blood-stained hands and biting her lip. "Ka-Kazekage-sama, perhaps you should—"

That was when the man on the other side of the table gasped and jerked back, some tool he'd been holding clattering metallically to the floor. Her eyes snapped to him, a question gathering on her lips. It flickered and died when she saw the look on his face – wide-eyed shock, fear, disbelief. She followed his gaze to the body on the table, the puppet-boy with the cherub features and the nightmare body, and felt her own features contort with identical emotions.

His eyes had opened.

Deep, rich brown eyes, glazed but searching.

He was blind. Blind and awake. Blind and _aware_.

Her surge of triumph – _I _knew_ he was alive! I knew it!_ – did not last for more than a moment.

That was when he struggled to sit up, and a pulse of deep, brackish purple dampened the bandages across his chest.

_Oh, no. Oh no no no_. She thought frantically.

Sasori had similar thoughts. Only, rather than frantic, his were desperate. And rather than no, his said please.

He tried to see through a blurred, gray haze, filled with shadows and painful spots of light, smudges of overbright colors catching his fragmented gaze. Purple, white, something fleshy and pale, blue, red. His chest ached. He felt the splintered wood shift, heard it grind, and was aware he was in no condition to be moving just yet. But he _had_ to move. He had to. Moving was the only thing he could do. Because he didn't want to be in any condition to move. He didn't want that. Not in the least – not anymore.

He'd heard a name.

_Kazekage-sama._

The one who had managed to beat him into the dust. The one who had almost killed him. The one he wanted to deliver his death, because that would be better – far better – than some underling with a kunai stabbing him under orders. In fact, he could accept nothing less. As much as he wanted to die, as desperate at he was for oblivion, he still had his pride. And his pride dictated it could only be _him_. Only him. The Kazekage. The Jinchuuriki. Gaara.

So Sasori fought his protesting body, forcing uncooperative, uncoordinated limbs into action. He sat up with a creaking of joints and a gasp at the pain in his heart; he felt cold blood dampen his false skin.

Then closed his eyes, useless things that they were, and took a breath to speak.

"Kill me." His voice was rough, dry and cracked and thin. Breakable. "Kill me. _Kill_ me. Just _kill_ me_—_"

His limited strength was failing. Grey was fading to black. His leaking, last trace of humanity was plunging him back into hazy unconsciousness. _No. No no no no NO!_

"Kill..._kill_...me..." He felt himself waver and tilt, slipping to the side. "Gaara..._please_..._kill_ _me_..."

Then he once again faded away from consciousness and coherency.

It was like a scene out of some surreal hallucination.

Sasori.

_Sasori_…

Gaara had been told he was alive, Chiyo had supposed it, he had hoped for it, and at first, seeing the puppet rise had given him some uneasy but not unpleasant surprise. Eyes open. Sasori's eyes were large and deep, he noticed that now, it was the detail that stood out for him.

Of course, that was until Sasori opened his mouth to speak.

The pleading half-groans were accented by the oozing black blood that was leaking onto the bandages on Sasori's chest. Gaara could only watch, eyes wide, listening silently to the puppeteer's pitiful calls.

It sounded as if he were begging for a mercy kill.

But the young boy being beckoned to cast the final blow was helpless to act in his shock, and perhaps even fear. His lips parted, breath tight in his throat. It was a frightening scene, one that clung to him even as it faded with Sasori's collapse.

He looked to the two medics with an almost pleading look himself, as if trying to get a direction from anyone of what he was supposed to do.

The male medic took little notice of the look the Kazekage sent his way - he was too busy dashing toward the body on the glistening table, now spotted with oiled droplets from the dripping bandages. The puppet had begun to fall sideways. He grabbed it (_oh shit i can't believe it was alive it was actually alive_) and held it, securely, stiffly, and as far away from himself as he could, gingerly laying it back down after a moment of grim, disgusted, fearful stillness. Wooden limbs clattered hollowly against the sheeted metal. The eyes were closed. He shuddered and scrubbed his palms against the front of his coat, as though to rid himself of traces of illness after touching a plagued corpse. There was a trace of murky horror in his eyes. _How could such a thing be permitted to live? How could it move? Speak? Beg? How? _Why?

**Heh. The bastard's blood has an odd smell, doesn't it? Smells like oil, and iron. Like machinery, even on the inside.** The creature in him remarked, lazily, perhaps amused at the flurry of thoughts flying past him within his boy's mind.

Gaara watched as Sasori settled into stillness, whatever energy the man had gathered fading again into that strange lifelessness. One of the medics was afraid of Sasori, he could see it. 

Maybe he was afraid of Sasori, too. He was clenched hard, even as he stood, his muscles tight.

The woman, standing beside her leader, heaved a deep sigh. Her dark eyes were flat. She took a steadying breath and glanced at her mechanical patient.

"Well. We know he's alive. And if he's begging to be killed, he's probably not going to die off on his own." She informed him with a confusingly mixed edge of cynicism and optimism. "Always a good thing..." Sighing and crossing her arms, the medic tilted her head a slight angle to one side and examined the once-again inanimate corpse. He brow furrowed in thought.

Not for long, though. Only a moment or so passed before she was once again addressing the red-haired boy beside her.

"Kazekage-sama, I hate to be so...forward, but...I have a patient to attend to. I've been ordered to keep him alive, whatever that may mean for him, and it would make my job very difficult if you killed him today...He's bleeding again, it would seem, and I need to find some way to make him stop, so, if you wouldn't mind stepping outside...?" She motioned deliberately at the door. "You're welcome to do whatever you would like with him just as soon as he's free of my care and out of my hands, but, for now..." She glanced at the puppeteer, her expression darkening. "Well...you know." 

**You gonna kill him?**

I... don't know.

Gaara blinked back at the female medic, slowly, slowly beginning to relax as she spoke. His shoulders lowered, his fingers uncurled. As she went on, he finally settled, releasing a breath that came out as a sigh. He was partially glad she had been so forward as to essentially shoo him out of the room. If he had initially seen the medic as timid, well... he was reconsidering it. But he was glad. He did not know what he would have done if he had been left alone to consider Sasori's request. 

Giving a short nod, he began to turn, bringing his back to the puppet on the table. 

Sasori's semi-conscious face seemed to linger in his mind, even as he walked towards the door. 

He had an aversion to medics early in life because of how 'clinical' they behaved. Well, at least, though he did not acknowledge it, it was a reason. But it appeared with Sasori that these two could no longer be so clinical with their patient.  
He stepped outside, and shut the door behind him, bracing himself on the wall next to it. 

**So. You've driven him to beg for death.**

I didn't mean to. 

**Yeah, sure, you never wanted him to have to beg. Eh, either way, he's dead, you know. He's back in Suna, remember? I guess he'd rather it be at your hands.**

The red-haired boy bit his lip, recalling Sasori's pleading. Pleading to him by name.


	15. Recovery

Twenty-three days.

The first fifteen were spent unconscious, in a white room with white walls and shining metals bits of things and a neatly tiled floor that became, over those five-times-three days, sticky and smudged with his not-quite-blood. His not-quite-blood had a tendency to not-quite-dry-up, so every footstep and subsequent footprint was wet, then damp, then thick and gluey (never crisp and crackling and dry, the way normal blood becomes when left to its own devices in open air). It was like oil, grease, tar: it got on the tools they used on him and refused to be rubbed or scrubbed away, it got on their clothes and could not be washed out, it got on their skin and left behind an inky stain. His blood splattered and soaked their minds, and they knew - _knew_ - it would never come off. No matter how much they rubbed and scrubbed and washed and cleaned.

Five of the alternating seven who worked on him asked to take sick days. At home, pleaseandthankyou. For a month, pleaseandthankyou.

One continued his life as usual (albeit with a slight aversion to dark purple substances, such as grape jam).

The female medic in charge of his healing locked herself in her home without a word. Her neighbors and colleagues shook their heads and sighed, marking it off as dramatics. They didn't know what it was like to be bled on by a machine with a heart and a mind and a broken-boned, hemorrhaging soul. They didn't know what it was like to look into its eyes, day after day, and know that it was beginning to look back. They didn't know what it was like to spend every waking hour of every day keeping an absolute abomination of nature _alive_, even when it begged for death. For a month, pleaseandthankyou.

The last eight days of Sasori's stay in the Suna medical ward involved metal clamps being attached to the table. He had become too mobile. He spent too much of his time awake, and they had no way to sedate him. They expected him to become vicious, and angry. They expected him to lash out. But it was worse than that. Much worse:

He came apathetic.

He lay silently on his cold, metal, not-quite-blood-stained table, his arms and legs and torso clamped down. He did not struggle. He made no sound. The only indication that he was alive was the gradual, unlikely healing of his body, and the occasional flicker of his deep brown eyes. A twitch of a finger, as though it were remembering the comfort of an answering tug of strings.

On the twenty-fourth evening, surrounded on four sides by six men, his hands bound, his face blank, they led him back to his distantly familiar cell and locked him securely inside. He had his vision back. He had his body back. His heart (_it's more like a flesh and blood, uhm, _core) had re-established itself, securely this time. There was a jagged, red-purple mark, visible on the edge, where it had been cut, where it had bled for thirteen of twenty-three days. There was a jagged, red-purple shadow, invisible on the inside, that would never stop leaking thick, oily, not-quite-humiliation. Self-disgust. Shame.

He stared the rough, blank walls with liquid, blank eyes.

He had his vision back, but still he saw nothing. 

Just stared. 

Empty.

Early in the black, sunless, twenty-fifth morning, Sasori curled with his back to a cold stone wall. He tucked his legs against his chest (a chest lined with pale memories of cracks, false scars against his false skin) and set his chin upon his knees and hid his face in his folded arms, his ragged red hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. He did not shiver. He did not cry.

He might've though.  
If he had been able to, he might've.

**xXxXx**

Twenty three days in Sunagakure, and things had struggled, stubbornly, to return to their usual pace. The council had been turning in on itself, overturning members and giving mandatory mental searches. It was the usual much-too-late fashion of squirming after a spy had been discovered. Gaara, initially, would have nothing of it, his voice rising above his usual tone when he attempted to argue down the old men.

_I will not force the city of Sunagakure through a witch hunt!_ he protested.

His demands were ignored, and to add insult to injury, both his brother and his ex teacher were also put through the harsh, long interrogation.

It wasn't painful, per se, but definitely uncomfortable. Mental taps typically left the subject feeling ill and violated.

But, after a week, no results came up. At their Kazekage's bidding, those closest to Yura who had been held in custody had been released, and the council was finally allowed to come to order again.

A list of casualties from the poisoning incident had been finalized, and although Gaara did not make a public address, he did declare a village wide day of mourning and showed up to the funeral in a quiet public appearance. Oratory things were still beyond him, which no doubt the pundits within the village remarked darkly upon.

It was best for the young Kazekage to simply show up in his funeral wear – had he opened his mouth, his usual apathy would have been vaguely insulting. An attempt to force emotion would have been worse_._

Most of the ones who had died during the attack were children. Matsuri had known one of them, since she worked weekends at Sunagakure's budding academy. She was teary eyed all day, sniffling softly during the procession. Gaara had expected her to blame him for it – it was his fault, after all – and avoid him in some manner. But she did not, and lingered around him as if she expected him to turn around and say something to her.

Somberly, he had kept quiet the whole time, watching with his quiet guilt as several bodies were buried on that day.

The days after that, Sunagakure seemed to settle. A few shopkeepers and civilians hung black blankets from windowsills, as a sign of continued grief, likely the parents and friends of the victims. They were reminders, like flags, or emblems, whispering to him of his failures.

Two weeks later, and the council had not addressed their captive. Gaara himself thought about Sasori from time to time, but did not visit. No, he silently obeyed the medic's request, to stay back until her job had been done. After a while, though, reports were being published. Some were written with a growing sense of despair within their words...

_Subject's eyes follow my hands, until he seems to lose interest._

_Subject does not struggle against the clamps, even though we are currently exposed while tending to his lower chest._

_Subject seems to be hearing readily, and looked up when I said I was taking the day off._

Aware. The puppeteer was on the table and aware. Maybe the young Kazekage also stayed away because of that.

One night he had had a brief scare – who was he, now? He _never_ got scared – at night while patrolling the streets of his village. He had almost heard it, that slow, continuous pleading that clung to his memories like something unpleasant with claws.

The next day, Sasori had been released from the medical ward.

Gaara had no doubt that would get the council's attention, now that their prisoner was apparently in a fitter shape. But he was tired of that, not nearly in the mood to sit back and wait while they arranged an execution or an interrogation.

The prison security had been drummed up, even more rather useless jobs assigned. A flurry of activity after a period of nothing. Well, Gaara gave a huff, as he stood, waiting for the three extra deputies to stop talking amongst each other and address him. Whoever had assigned the new men had did so very sloppily. Two of the deputies had no idea who to report to, and the one who did could not find his leader.  
Fed up, he simply ordered them to let him in.

Tch. An abuse of power, maybe, but he was obeyed.

Empty cell after empty cell. All down the hall. He kept his eyes, trained, on the bars of one of the back prisons, one that was littered with tags. 

Something in his stomach fluttered, briefly, the same sort of shudder that crept on his nights. 

_Sasori._

He stopped in front of the ugly, sealed up cell.

He peered into the dark of it, uncertainly. 

_What has become of you?_

A small, dark shape sat pressed against the far wall. Listening.

A distant stir of voices had pulled him from his stupor. A faint breath - the _faintest_ breath - of moving air, silently plucking at his tangled hair, had given him cause to raise his head a small fraction - the _smallest _fraction - of an inch. He looked at what he could see. He caught the edge of a moving, breathing shadow, stricken through with thick lines thrown against the floor by the bars of his cage. The shadow grew still. It leaned closer.

Sasori glanced up from the comforting circle of his own arms.

His eyes were hollow and unsurprised when they fell on the youth standing just outside of his steel and stone confines. Their color was not acknowledged by the dim light, and seemed base and flat and black rather than the drowning pools of chocolate and amber that they rightfully were. He blinked slowly. His cheeks seemed shadowed, his chin less stubborn. Lips that once seemed disposed to curl into a smile or a smirk or a sneer now lent themselves only to no expression at all. When he slid his legs away from his body, placing his arms on either side of himself with deliberate slowness, the pale, irregular lines that spiderwebbed over his torso showed themselves, shining faintly, like scar tissue. The injury on his heart (_flesh and blood, uhm, core_) seemed darker in the darkness.

Given the option, he would've changed out his body; he was not given the option. No one bothered to ask, and he did not bother to tell. The time he spent in the medical ward was a time of deep thought and memory. He recalled plans, problems, perfections, puppets, people.

_People_.

He remembered his partner, Deidara. The way he flicked back his blond hair. The way he fiddled absently with his cloak. The way he spoke, a curious little addition at the ends of his sentences. The way his eyes gleamed when he looked upon his explosions, his brief works of art, and the puppet master would never admit it anywhere beyond the most secret corners of his mind, but they _were_ art. They were art and they were beautiful.

He remembered his grandmother, Chiyo. The way she looked the last time he saw her before he left, twenty-odd years ago. Tired already. He could see the beginnings of lines on her skin that had never been there before. Her eyes did not understand his. She had lost the ability to communicate with her grandson, and though she loved him - loved him dearly, desperately - she did not know him. He had become a stranger to her. He loved her still, to some small degree - the _smallest_ degree - but he did not wish for her company. He said goodnight, well aware he would not be there to say good morning. He did not bother with a more elaborate farewell. He did not commit her face to memory. He still remembered it perfectly.

He remembered his parents. His mother. His father. The last time he saw them; a vague, shadowy memory. Short red hair, like his own. Long dark hair, unlike his own. Faces and hands and warm, comfortable bodies. Hugs. Kisses. Big, strong arms that held him close. Billowing cloaks to hide inside of. A sweet-smelling, beautiful woman with deep, beautiful eyes. A sweat-smelling, handsome man with bright, autumnal eyes. They both loved their son. Their son loved them both. They kissed his cheeks and his forehead and his long-lashed eyes, and the softy, sticky palms of his hands. He reached up to kiss their puckered lips, and missed by a margin, getting their chins instead. They bent lower so he could try again, one chuckling deeply, the other giggling.

Then they left.  
Then they died.

Then the little boy they left behind took his broken heart and wrapped it up until it was nothing but layers of oil-stained bandage, a flesh and blood, _uhm_, core.

Sasori, riddled with filmy, light scars, his eyes empty, his skin pale and shadowed, his mouth opening as he took a slow breath, whispered faintly: "...What more do you want of me, Gaara of the Sand...?" Another deep breath. He bowed his head, looking away. "...I have nothing left to give you...no anger, no pain...no blood..." He sighed. "And I doubt you have come to put an end to me...So what is it you want...? Answers? I have no more to give...I've nothing more to tell you about the Akatsuki..."

It distantly occurred to Gaara he was merely staring down at Sasori, lips parted in a noiseless expression of... awe, perhaps. He had never expected to see Sasori in this state. When he had seen the puppeteer, sprawled on the medical table, he had seemed more together. Covered in bandages, oozing blood, barely patched up, Sasori had seemed more together.

Now, the man looked as if truly irreparable.

Pausing, the boy considered Sasori's words, his mouth still forming the slight 'o'. He would tell no more of the Akatsuki, then. Not that it mattered, at this point. The convict was likely sentenced to death anyways, just for the attempt to escape. Even though no one, save Yura and Sasori himself had been injured, it had damned him.

Though, Gaara thought to himself, finally swallowing and looking away, that might be what Sasori wants. 

But no answers? Nothing to say to him? 

Even if Sasori did not have answers, he still had questions.

"Sasori." he didn't look back at the other, his teal eyes forced to focus elsewhere, "Why did you do that to your body...?" it wasn't something spoken with the sort of fearful, distorted wonder of the doctors that had bound him back together. It was calm, it was pressing. It was almost concerned.

Sasori was silent for a long moment. His flat black eyes flicked down, examining the body to which they belonged. His slack lips stirred to unsteady life. A memory lent a faint, faded rigidity to his jaw, and his shoulders seemed to tighten. His mind tossed and turned. Words limped forward, slow and small and crippled.

"...I wanted to be a puppet." It was the truth. "Puppets...they can fight, and hurt, and kill...but they can't feel. They're just machines. No pain." No cut could bleed. No burn could singe. No battering could bruise. No muscle could ache. No heart could break. No pain.

"I never succeeded totally. Now, I think...I never will."

The boy turned back to face the fallen puppeteer, in a short, brief movement, his eyes dim. Puppets don't feel. Puppets are tools.

Shinobi are tools, too.

The only difference between them, Gaara supposed, was that puppets weren't alive.

Sasori, however, was a living puppet. Or as close to it as possible.

He wished to ask the man what pain he was trying to avoid. But he doubted Sasori would answer. Doubted, but...

"What hurt you?" he blinked once, before slowly dropping lower, knees bent under him.

Sasori's gaze slid to the side to rest on the boy beyond the bars. There was a sudden, faintly bristling air to him; a cornered dog hesitantly flashing white teeth, hackles creeping up. A hint of irritated disquiet. His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. The lingering stiffness and rigidity of his body took on an additional edge. His fingers twitched.

It subsided, after a tense second, into an uneasy, brooding stillness. He looked down at his hands. He didn't see them.

He thought about it.  
...What had hurt him? 

His mother.  
His father.  
The man who killed them.  
His grandmother.  
His village. 

But...no. It was bigger than them. Stronger. More capable of dealing out pain.

Sasori took a deep, shuddering breath.

"...Love." He said, and the word was ragged and torn, faintly acidic. "Love hurt me."

A visible tremor went through Gaara at that, low, dark little word. His little dull eyed blank look had been broken by it, something more than shock passing over him.

It...was such a simple understanding, Sasori wouldn't – couldn't know what it meant. 

_Love hurts._

He wondered if Sasori ever pondered the significance of the mark on his head, the forever red scar that he had inflicted upon himself. 

Memories passed over him, of a little lie about his sand. That it was his mother's _love_ protecting him. And of how everything he thought was love came crashing down around him. 

It took a small struggle to remove himself from those memories. He had faced them enough in life, and he rarely touched upon them now. Or at least he tried not to, waving them away the best he could.

Slowly, achingly, as he returned to the present, Gaara unclenched.

Sasori was watching, with pale and waxing interest, as the string of emotions flitted darkly through the boy's lean frame. A thread of shock, a strand of disbelief, a coiled memory of pain that went deeper than the surface, a twisting struggle to regain composure. A long moment, and his rigid body eased; the glazing that coated his teal eyes melted away. He pulled himself, bit by bit, from the tangled mess of remembering.

The puppeteer realized something.

"We have something in common, don't we, Gaara of the Sand?"

The minuscule lifting of the corners of his mouth could not be called a smile. It entirely failed to reach his eyes.

Gaara's eyes finally focused back on the puppeteer's face, seeing that slight, but pointed little curve on his lips. It seemed almost a bitter smile from where he knelt at the bars. Obviously Gaara's little hitch of thought – of memory, had been noticed. The boy seemed to mouth something, but no sound came out. Shaking his head, Gaara reached to brush the hair out of his face, feeling just a bit more tired than usual.

"Yes." finally, he answered, "I think we do."

_You detached yourself by modifying your body into something less than human._

_I killed like something less than human._

"We've both killed a lot, I would think," he said simply, giving another head shake.

"That's nothing peculiar..." Sasori murmured, and behind his flat, dark eyes a red-haired man and a black-haired woman smiled and waved goodbye with more permanence than they had imagined, waved goodbye to a boy who thought the world was just and good, and that love was all he could ever need.

His thin lips took on a hard, bitter edge.

"Murder is the shinobi lifestyle, boy. It always has been and always will be."

He looked up at the Kazekage; his gaze was shadowed, and his body was rigid. "I have two hundred and ninety eight human puppets in reserve back at my workshop. I have used them to kill hundreds, perhaps thousands more. For it I am hated, and I am hunted. But there are others who have killed as many as I, some even more...and for it they are praised. _Praised_, Gaara of the Sand. Because it is who is killed, and how the killing is done, and how the bodies are disposed of, that determines the world's perceptions. Killing, in and of itself, is not a crime."

It was a double standard, an ancient one, but a quiet, ever present standard nonetheless. Murder wasn't objected to. It was the who. The why.

In that, all shinobi were united, not just Gaara and Sasori.

But his sentiment to this was aversion, ultimate truth or not – that he and Sasori were both murderers, murderers even by the standards of the village. His mind recoiled, because there was something deeper than the killing. Even as he tried to distance himself – momentarily stunned by that little word 'Love' – there were threads of similarities between them. Threads like puppet strings.

Yes, the killing.

Why he was feared.

Because he went against the grain, the standards. 

Past year six, Gaara remembered, that was the one thing that could get the _High Kazekage Himself_ down from his position to confront his son. The killing. The miniature rampages upon which his teacher-keeper could not interject. It was wrong because it wasn't what he was told; he was attacking the wrong people. He should reserve his bloodlust for people of a different banner. But he hadn't cared – what interest to him were the vague enemies? The enemies were there, the ones that feared him. Hated him, like they had hated Sasori. And he had hated them right back.

That was one more string, from Sasori to himself.

In his life, he had once lived from day to day _loathing_ this village.

"...Yes...I think there are actually a few things we have in common, Sasori." It was a confession, an allowance further than what he wanted, and yet...he felt the need to yield to this sticky, uncomfortable reality.

At this, Sasori's eyes narrowed slightly, his brows pulling together in a shadow of a frown.

They had things in common, yes. Their home, their hatred, their hurts, their hair...the details of the their histories were different, but the feelings were largely the same – this much he could tell from the look in the young Kazekage's eyes, and the symbol etched into his skin. The expressions he sometimes caught on the villagers' faces.

He had known love, and loss.

"Undoubtedly." He looked away from the boy, to the solid far wall of his cage, striped with shadows. He closed his eyes and sighed. Pulled his legs up to his chest, folding his arms around them again, tucking his chin against an elbow. Undoubtedly they had a few things in common. Undoubtedly they had _more_ than a few things in common.

But that hardly mattered now.

"...What do you _want_, Kazekage?" He opened one eye just a crack, gazing flatly at the boy behind the bars.

What did he _want_? 

It had been quite a while since that question had been presented to him. As a shinobi he was already supposed to be a 'public servant', as his teacher had worded it, much to his distaste. Then he had become Kazekage, and his responsibilities shifted to revolve around tending to Suna. 

What _it_ wanted.

Humorlessly, he wondered if he were placing too much importance on that phrase, as Sasori had when Gaara thanked him.

This meeting, visiting Sasori, wasn't for Suna or its people. If he was seeing after the village's wants, he would be taking Sasori up on his plea for an execution. 

Again he approached Sasori in this prison, but not to halfheartedly interrogate him about the Akatsuki. 

Was his guilt returning as the Akasuna had sealed his fate? 

Was he inclined to see Sasori, after the nightmare scene where he begged for death?

It was, entirely, inexplicably selfish of him. A need to confirm that the puppeteer still remained, out of concern unbefitting of a Kazekage. Concern for a criminal who seemed more than ready to die.

In truth, it was simple: 

"I just wanted to see you."

The puppeteer's fingers twitched, remembering the answering snap of a long, scorpion tail as it slashed at a blonde-haired youth, intent upon punishing a playful lie. There was no poisoned metal device in his hands now, but the act of lashing out was embodied in his expression, in the way is eyes darkened, and the way his mouth thinned to a harsh line and his shoulders abruptly stiffened.

A cynical, disdainful scoff.

"Lies are not _befitting_ of a Kage, Gaara." He all but spat, sudden venom in his tone. "You wanted to _see me?_ Why? What is it you want or need that I have? Or does it bring you some great pleasure to poke at caged animals with _sticks_?" Sasori snarled, bristling and furious, his lips curling. Frustrated by his helplessness and weakness and his endless weeks of captivity.

"I poisoned your village, killed your people – you don't want to see me, you want to _hurt_ me. You want to make me bleed and scream, because I haven't bled and screamed enough for you just yet. _Honesty_, Kazekage, is a _virtue_."

Sasori's response was surprisingly sharp, angry, and his words stung Gaara, even if the boy didn't believe he was lying.

It was that guilt flaring up again, wasn't it, promising Sasori his freedom only to turn around and— 

Gaara gathered himself up, forcing that blank, demure look off of his face. He did not particularly enjoy being called a liar, even if it may have been an appropriate name for him.

"That wasn't a lie." he shot back, firmly. However, he faltered as he continued on, "I've never had someone ask me to kill them." 

He had heard others dare him to, thinking he couldn't, and he had witnessed some shinobi kill themselves trying to take him down with them, but never anything like how Sasori had acted. "and the last time I saw you, you were bleeding in a medic ward."

"Then why didn't you _finish_ it?" Sasori hissed, but already his brief flare of rage was flickering and dying, and his fading passion reflected itself in his softening, flattening voice. "Why didn't you end it then? Why didn't you end it _before_ then...? Death...death would have been..."

He fell silent, looking away from the red-haired Jinchuuriki.

The puppeteer was tired. He was imprisoned, defenseless, humiliated, alone. Everything he had was gone, stolen away to be analyzed and dissected – as he had been. Picked to pieces, his secrets gathered together and exhibited in glass display cases. He's a boy, he's a puppet, he is - _it_ is - an ageless monstrosity that has no right to _exist_, let alone _live_, but we'll keep him alive just the same, because that's the _humane_ thing to do.

Death would've been...

...relief.

He wanted that relief.

What kind of live had he led that at thirty-five all he wanted was to die? Most were still in their prime at his age. Most were ascending through the ranks. Most were working towards their futures, beginning their full, family lives...But he was over. His days were done.

Sasori closed his eyes and withdrew into himself.

He just wanted relief.

Gaara looked on, then looked away.

"...Because I didn't want to kill you." he said simply. 

He hadn't. Not when he had struck the puppeteer, not when he had fought him, not while he was on the hospital table-he hadn't wanted to kill the puppeteer. He had wanted to subdue him. To fight him off, perhaps render him unconscious.

And now he was wondering if he had done the wrong thing. For once, was keeping someone alive worse than killing them? No doubt his monster was snickering, seeing the effects as Gaara struggled to try and be merciful. He didn't _want_ to kill Sasori. But he couldn't look at the man's face without feeling that guilt.

Pride. He wondered if it was Sasori's pride once more, he would rather be dead than imprisoned. The ultimate stubbornness.

Quietly, not wanting to admit he had committed a fault, "Do you want to die that badly?"

There was something like pity in Gaara's tone when he spoke, something like sympathy, and everything in Sasori's being rebelled against it – he might've been caged and helpless and hated, but he was _not_ some crawling, contemptible, pathetic creature, needful of compassion and mercy. He was Sasori of the Red Sand. The greatest puppeteer Sunagakure had ever seen. His name would be passed down in history books, and already it was known throughout the village of his birth.

He wanted _nothing_ of _no one_. Let alone this mere _boy_, this _child_.

Did he want to die?

Was death and all its finality what he wanted?

No.

It was what came with death. Freedom. An end. A release from the endless cycle of turmoil and pain. But in this world, this life – _his_ life – there was no escape outside of that permanent, irreversible end. His strings were knotted in Pain's manifold fingers.

What did he want?

"I want a way out," he murmured.

_Oh_. The little phrase of non-surprise sounded out with a half thud within his mind. Of course. What Sasori needed was escape, or else death. Just not capture.

Captured like he was now.

Distantly, in response to Sasori's admission, Gaara wondered if it would have been easier on the both of them if he had just let Sasori flee, back when he attempted another bolt with his undercover subordinate. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time Gaara himself set up such a scheme. But, no. Out of loyalty to his village (born both out of the council's scorn and his teacher's presence), he fought the puppeteer anyway.

...it was well in his power to release Sasori this very moment. It would in any likelihood involve a lot of violence, but he could.

He drew his eyes away from the puppeteer, pretending to examine the tags in overabundance on the bars of Sasori's prison.

But he wouldn't. Between this man-who had attacked the people he needed to protect-and the village itself, he would choose the village.

In short, he needed to stop making deals with missing nin if his own feelings lingered like this.

Abruptly, he turned back to Sasori.

"I'm sorry."

It was short, like the rest of his words, and its meaning seem tossed between saying he wouldn't be of any help to Sasori and apologizing for getting him imprisoned in the first place. And, added quickly, as if trying to divert the puppeteer's potential ire at the apology, the young Kazekage offered a possibly worse question. 

"Sasori... Why did you leave the village?"

The puppeteer said nothing for a long moment. His eyes and body – unnaturally unblinking, unnaturally unbreathing – conveyed no emotion beyond soft, silent introspection. In the dim light he was an unmanned marionette, no strings attached, his jointed, segmented limbs lying limp where they had fallen. A red lock of hair shifted minutely in a distant, unfelt stirring of the air.

"I..." He stopped.

It had always been something deeply personal. Something that could not be shared. Deidara had pestered him endlessly, openly sharing his reasons for abandoning Iwagakure and demanding that his partner do the same; Sasori had always brushed him aside with undisguised annoyance. _None of your business, brat._

But now...what was the point, now, of hiding in the shadows of the present, afraid to look back and see the past burning brightly behind? He was due for execution any day. Any hour. They knew his weakness now. They could do it. Easily.

And what would he be leaving behind?

A few mangled puppets. Oily black stains on a white hospital floor. The byproducts of empty hours and a broken heart.

"I was five years old when my parents were killed." He whispered, and somewhere underneath his flat, empty voice – barely detectable – was a tight knot of age-old emotion, beginning to loosen for the first time in thirty years. "Chiyo...she didn't tell me. Not for a long time. By then...I already knew."

Long hours spent waiting for ghosts to come home.

"She tried to help. She didn't know how. So, in the end, she did the only thing she could: she taught me puppetry, to make me...happy..."

A miniature figure waltzed delicately into a room of his memories. His grandmother followed carefully behind, a tentative smile on her deeply creviced features, her fingers moving with practiced elegance. Within him rose a fog of enchantment and delight. She offered to show him how it was done, and his excitement knew no bounds.

Pieces of fingers and faces littered a table.

He assembled them with fascination and glee.

"So I made puppets. Hundreds of them. In every imaginable shape, of every imaginable size. I made them, surrounded myself with them..."

But no amount of care and craft could make them love.

Stiff wooden arms could not enfold a lonely child.

"For a long time, they were all I had, all I wanted...but over the years I grew tired of convention. I had explored every possible combination of materials, every possible shape...The limitations of puppets are many, you see, and I grew impatient with them. I wanted to explore. I wanted to see what more could be done with them, what more I could create..."

He remembered a forest of suspended bodies, carcasses on meat hooks. Ugly in the too-bright lights. Oppressive in the gloom. Thickening blood dripped from a bruised black toe: the result of an exploration gone wrong. Corpses and puppets and combinations of the two hung in rows from the low concrete ceiling. The floor was darkly stained with a sickly mix of oils and bodily fluids.

The development of human puppetry had been a long, erroneous process.

"I was fourteen when the village began to notice the disappearances. Fifteen when they began to realize it was me." It had begun as whispers among the councilmen. A look in Chiyo's eye, a stubborn refusal to face a sickening truth, an obstinate rejection of what she had already long suspected. He's just a child. He could never..._would_ never...

"I was gone before they were sure enough to take action. By then, my technique was fully developed, my resources exhausted, my facilities beyond their usefulness to me... I was no longer wanted, and there was nothing and no one left I needed or cared about enough to stay..."

Sasori closed his eyes.

_He thinks he knows horror, and murder. I _am_ horror and murder. Let him see me now, for what I am, for what I've done. Let him see. Let him know. Knowing, he'll never come back._

That was why he had never told Deidara.

He had always wanted him to come back.

The word 'disappearances' hung with Gaara, echoing about in his head. The monster was dwelling on it, quite readily, and he felt a jagged smile spread on its face. He offered to his host a quiet little footnote to Sasori's tale, to explain a nature behind the killings the puppet master was alluding to.

**Prototypes**. 

Gaara's eyes widened a tic, in understanding.

Boiled down, he did not know what to think of Sasori's story. There was a thread of understanding running through, the simple theme of having not a single person in the village to care about—a precious person?—and briefly he wondered about himself. What had kept himself in the village, when he had cared nothing of its inhabitants, its standards and its goals?

...**because you were ''needed', perhaps?** the creature mused. **By your father, of all people**.

The violence was unsurprising to him, at least in every aspect save for the reasoning behind it. It wasn't personal, as far as he could tell (although at once the demon protested that, to Gaara's confusion), but it wasn't random either.

Prototypes.

It was medical. Planned. Experimental.

Sasori had left, perhaps to explore his puppetry further, perhaps because the village was no longer worth staying for to him.

He did not know what to think of it. He had not expected it to be so...practical. Maybe he had been expecting a list of injustices, something pent up, a final straw—but then again, that would be unlike Sasori. 

It...seemed like a decision. A final, definite, chosen end. 

So then the other man would have been on his own, a young rogue shinobi. And in many cases, 'missing nin' do not travel alone for very long. 

"...why Akatsuki?" 

Sasori glanced at him, faintly surprised. For some reason, the boy was continuing his inquiry. He didn't reel in the face of mechanical, passionless murder. And even more surprising than that, he hadn't guessed the answer to his own question – the puppeteer had always thought it obvious.

"I needed a studio, and...materials with which to work to continue my art. Akatsuki had both. The resources they offered in exchange for my services were too good to turn down. They also offered protection, which is hard to come by when working alone, even without the force of a village rearing up behind."

But that wasn't the only reason. That had _never_ been the only reason.

_Tell the truth?_

He looked away. To tell the full truth of it would be admitting to what was an undeniably human weakness. It was unlike him in every way. He was of a stubborn and prideful line. Admissions of _anything_ were beyond him and his kin.

...But he had confessed to so much already.

"And..." His voice was softer, almost hesitant.

_Did he dare?_

The lonely months had been driving him slowly to madness when Itachi had approached him with a proposition that had seemed entirely too good to be true. At the time, he had made a great show of not caring, of having to think about it. But the Uchiha had known the lie for what it was. He had seen the thin film of desperation that had coated the puppeteer like a sticky layer of sweat. Or blood.

"...who else but an organization of missing-nin would have me?"

The softness was jarring, although Gaara was at a loss to explain why, at first. Since he had entered this prison Sasori had been subdued and withdrawn. Perhaps it was the hesitation, then, that got him wondering.  
Such an ironic camaraderie, this Akatsuki.

In general, missing nin rarely stayed on their own (unless they simply wanted to fade into the rural villages in a life of exclusion), most gathered with others for survival. It was something that Gaara had been taught, briefly. Groups offered protection, in the sense of the word, numbers, resources... and oftentimes a goal.

But then there was the hesitation, and a second reason.

"Even as a missing nin, you didn't want to be alone?" he asked, almost in disbelief, his own feelings clashing with his perception of Sasori. Someone who wanted to make himself into a puppet, who admired them for their utter apathy, still wanted to be in a group? To be 'had', by someone? Whether you were made to be a tool, or making yourself into one, there was still inescapable loneliness?

Sasori shied away from the Kazekage's question, curling yet tighter upon himself. Bitterness and shame rose up in the back of his artificial throat.

"I never realized how...necessary it was. Company. A voice that isn't your own. Out in the desert, with nothing but the wind and the sand and the things that crawl so quietly..." Long, solitary months of hiding in the dunes, skirting between the lands of Wind and River and Rain and Bird, avoiding the search parties that the bordering countries sent out so frequently. "...I thought I was beginning to lose my mind. The human puppets were always watching. Sometimes I was sure that they were still alive, waiting for me to fall asleep, or look away..."

It was the only time in his life when his own work had frightened him.

"I didn't want to be alone because I didn't want to die...I didn't want to go mad, as so many had before me."

"Hm." Gaara dropped his gaze, looking off elsewhere at nothing, feeling a bit of old fatigue creep up on him. He wanted to lean against the bars of Sasori's prison, but instead settled to simply ease back on his heels, head lowered.

That the puppeteer still felt the desire—or rather, the need—for someone, anyone around reassured him of something. Perhaps...of Sasori's humanity.

That Sasori, like himself, lamented being alone.

Well, in a way he was glad that Sasori did not go mad from loneliness, as he knew firsthand the effects of such madness. In addition to...other things.

"You... can grow insane in that manner more quickly than you'd believe." he remarked, dully.

Sasori glanced up at the Jinchuuriki on the other side of the bars, his head bowed and his voice flat, his slender frame set in a remembered weariness. His dark-rimmed eyes shadowed and thoughtful.

He knew. He knew the kind of slipping, sliding instability the puppeteer spoke of. The kind that slithered beneath unsteady feet. The kind that sunk dull teeth into the spine. It was in his tone, in his body. It was as though he'd said it aloud, or written it across the floor.

They'd both looked into its round, wet, clinging eyes, as vacant and emotionless as those of a fish, or some cave-dwelling insect.

And they'd survived.

Sasori unfurled from his place in the corner. His bare torso – unclothed so the guards would know where to aim if they needed to kill him, as though he were still some kind of _threat_ – scraped hollowly against the concrete behind him. The loose, neutral gray leggings they'd put on him out of some ridiculous, impulsive need for decency (as though he needed them) caught on the uneven flooring as he pushed way from the wall and into a crouch, rising almost tentatively. The healed cracks in his chest glinted faintly in the firelight, like worn wood.

Stepping carefully across his cage, with the delicate precision of the marionettes he so loved, he knelt – cautiously, warily – near the bars, within arms reach of the Kazekage. The tags that striped the metal would prevent him from touching them, or even reaching between them, but he neither needed nor wanted to do either.

He just wanted to talk.

He had his own questions.

Akatsuki made a business of knowing something about the individuals they hunted. Because of this business, the puppeteer knew the bare facts of the boy's history...but bare facts were all that they were. There was no record of thoughts, or intentions, or emotions. No explanation of the kanji carved into his forehead. And as the inevitable, unspoken end grew near, he found himself stricken with an uncharacteristic curiosity. He wanted to learn what was left to learn. Ask was left to ask. Understand what he was still capable of understanding.

"...Why love?"

Looking up at the brief question, Gaara at first blinked, remembering only Sasori's words from before.

_Love hurt me._

But, abruptly, the question seemed directed at him. On reflex, his hand lifted to brush over the carved tattoo on his brow, tracing part of a wound that might never heal.

"You mean this?" he asked, before lowering his arm again to his side. It hadn't been the first time he had been asked. His siblings had been the first, and that was not too long ago, back when they no longer felt threatened by speaking with him. But it was something rarely asked, even if he often caught others staring at it, from a distance.

"From when I was young, I was cared for by my uncle when my father wouldn't bother, and he treated me very well. He said that the sand of mine, which seems to have a life of its own, was actually the lingering love of my mother from after she died giving birth to me. Her love was protecting me, after all," This story was told more often, but ever since he had given it to Uzumaki Naruto, it had lost the edge it once had. Bitterness still dripped off of every word, but there was no longer such...anger to it.

They were old memories he did not like to relive.

"And then, at the request of my father, my uncle set out to assassinate me. I nearly killed him defending myself. I was too used to the other attempts on my life. But as my uncle was dying, he told me it was not my mother's love that made the sand move; my mother died cursing the village and giving me a name that meant... 'the demon that only loves itself'. My uncle had accepted the assignment to kill me because he, after all that time, actually hated me, and with his last breath blew himself up trying to kill me."

_Please die._

The last request from his caretaker. A last look from a calm face covered in blood. An act of love for his mother, and an act of hatred for him.

"So, I suppose caved it into myself to live up to my name. With no one else to do so, I would love myself."

Sasori had listened quietly while the young Kazekage spoke, matching what he knew with what was said, the unknown assassin becoming a beloved uncle, the death of the mother becoming a series of accumulated lies. Even the Fourth changed places in his mind, from one more faceless village leader to a hateful father.

And the meaning behind the kanji etched into his smooth, white skin.

"You've failed to live up to your name..." he observed softly, his eyes tracing the delicate, precise curves of the kanji. "You love your village, your people...or if you don't, you make a very convincing show of loving them." From his thoughtless self-sacrifice to the urgency with which he returned to them, tended to them, Gaara had exhibited more than the obligatory concern that comes with being a Kage; he had, in his level, quiet way, loved the people entrusted to him. "And your siblings," he added. "When you spoke with your brother, the puppeteer...if you do not love him, at least you can be assured that he cares for you. I saw that much for myself."

_You are not as loveless as you may think, Gaara of the Sand._

"Am I wrong?"

Again, something more than just surprise crossed him, at Sasori's words. It was more than just a response. In fact, it seemed like something between a rebuttal and some insight, but either intention seemed at once too personal. But that was what this was, wasn't it? This...conversation. Exchange, would best describe it. Personal for personal.

Something, tugging at his lips, toyed with his weariness. Almost-a-smile-but-not-quite. But even though the more evident expression stayed hidden in his usual apathy, his features did look warmer, and almost...grateful.

"No... you're not wrong. Not at all."

How ironic and yet how wonderful that not living up to his name would be so.

"Some three years ago, back when Orochimaru made himself a replacement for my father to try and attack Konoha... I met Uzumaki Naruto."

He felt just a bit of his fatigue lift just remembering that boy's energy, his happiness, his will.

"I suppose, him being a host like me, you will have heard of him. He... taught me, some things. That you can grow stronger, protecting people precious to you. That even if your village hates and fears you, you can still have people... precious to you."

"To a degree," Sasori murmured, countering the Kazekage. "There is a point at which a village's – and, in turn, its _people's_ – inclination to forgive runs dry." He looked up at his companion, and his eyes were hard. "That's the point at which they declare you a missing-nin, and from that point on either kill you, torture you and _then_ kill you, or imprison you indefinitely until they decide on an appropriate time to interrogate, _then _torture, and _then_ kill you.

"The hatred of a village is an injury it is only possible to recover from if you are still among its ranks. Otherwise, you're fresh out of luck. I would know," He added wryly, nodding his head in indication of the cell in which he was sealed.

"And you've seen for yourself, I'm sure, the way a missing-nin is handled in government. See what you can get from it, then attack first and ask no questions later. No discussions about whether or not death is an option. Death is the _only_ option, the _final_ option. What comes before it is the only question. Shall we pull his fingernails out, or cut his tongue in two? Would skinning him alive make him talk, or only scream? What is the best way to scoop out a shinobi's eyes without damaging anything more important?"

One of the manifold advantages of a puppet body: it's inability to feel any kind of physical pain. Chances were he'd only lasted in his little cell as long as he had because the..._interrogators _were still trying to figure out how to threaten a ninja made of wood.

"I've reached the end of the line, Gaara. There are no more 'precious people' left for me. Not in the Akatsuki, and certainly not in Suna."

As far as Gaara knew, with his brief studies of the occasional bingo book, or a history textbook (that had been short-lived in Suna's prototype academy), Suna did not have many missing nin. Political opponents intending more than just vigorous debate were often times sniffed out and snuffed out before they could actually stage coups or try to flee. He had seen enough of his father's policies to know that. Sometimes Suna nin would leave the country after being convicted for advance crimes. He supposed Sasori was like that.

Even so, he did know how Sasori was treated, was going to be treated, and even if they had yet to establish an execution date, it was inevitable. There was simply no other option in the council's eyes. As for the public opinion...well. That wouldn't be anything different, especially for those with relatives that had been killed in the poison blast.

So, had Suna turned its back on Sasori? Everyone?

Even Gaara himself was surely no friend to the puppeteer.

"I doubt it means anything to you..." Because he doubted he counted his grandmother as a precious person. But even so, Chiyo had... arranged for Sasori to be tended to, even though she had vouched for her grandson barely two days before to be killed. "...but Chiyo, I believe you are still precious to her."

One delicate brow lifted, the corner of Sasori's mouth twisting wryly upwards.

"Chiyo." He scoffed, closed his eyes, and gave a short, sharp shake of his head. "I am not precious to Chiyo. What is precious to Chiyo is the memory of a child she once tended, many years ago. An image. She clings to a past long gone." He turned his amber eyes on the boy beside him. "Any illusions of affection are directed at what I look like, not what I am. She does not know me. She cannot care for what she does not know. It is a lie – like the juvenile boy declaring love for a girl he has never met, only because she is beautiful. Chiyo is bound to me by the obligations of blood and dusty recollections. Nothing more."

He turned away at that, gazing down at his hands where they rested limply in his lap. A lock of red hair brushed across his vision. He ignored it.

He was out of chances. However he might now, at the end, wish it otherwise, he'd used up every card he had. Every resource. Everything and everyone that might have helped him. No more puppets, no more slaves. No more partners or family members. He was alone.

Completely alone.

Gaara almost wanted to argue further, for Chiyo's sake. That the woman had seen that he had changed, had seen what he became, and still chose to try and save his life—but he held his tongue. He was in no place to say such things of a family he knew so little of, save for brief conversations that flared to life in a mixture of emotion and old grief. Conversations he had little right to bear witness to in the first place.

Maybe it was his own naivety. His desire to assure Sasori that someone still in the village had accepted him.

"I..." Sasori blinked, slowly, his fingers curling to lightly brush his palms. "...I sometimes wish it were different. That I hadn't done what I've done. That I hadn't left. That I still had people who were precious to me, and that I was precious to..." His head bowed, a wry, humorless smile split across his thin lips. "But those days are gone for good. And no degree of regret will save me."

Regret.

It may as well stand for the both of them. No amount of regret would spare Sasori the sentence put on his head when he left the village. Not his, not Sasori's.

Sighing, running a hand over his scalp, Gaara looked the prisoner in the face.

"I'm sorry, Sasori. I can't say you helped the village out of charity, but I am grateful for what you did." A pause, and for a moment Gaara lowered his gaze to gather himself. "And...I'm sorry I betrayed you."

"I _trusted_ you," Sasori all but whispered, a thin vein of hurt in his voice. "I scarcely even know why, but I did, and I was a damn fool to do so. What Kage would double-cross his village for the sake of a missing-nin?" He shook his head. "It was stupid. Plainly, simply stupid. I shouldn't have believed you anymore than you should have believed me."

Yet, wasn't the final irony contained in which of the two red-headed Suna nin had kept his end of the deal?

"But," He lifted a hand in a weak mime of tossing something into the air. "Now it's all just dust in the wind, Gaara of the Sand...you did what you had to do. And as much as it infuriated me, damned me...I can't blame you for it."

Another twinge of regret and tremulous dismay coursed through the young Kazekage's system. Maybe Sasori had chosen to help the village merely out of Gaara's _chance_ at freedom. But that... still meant he had put his faith in Gaara, and chose that _chance_ over letting a village he claimed to hate die with him.

It was never meant to be a personal affair. Sasori attacked the village-though perhaps partially out of a vendetta-to get to him, as part of his role in the Akatsuki. Gaara had then recaptured Sasori because of his role as Kazekage. But it was his fault that Sasori had been let in the village, his fault the village had been poisoned, his fault that Sasori had even returned at all. And now it was because of him-that Sasori had placed his faith in him, that the puppeteer would die. Therein lay his regret.

"If anything, you should blame me." Gaara rose to his feet, looking off down the hallway of the prison that was still unsettled by the extra security. "This whole thing may as well have been my doing."

Sasori looked up at the Kazekage as he stood, his frame drooping and his expression slackening, a muted protest dying on his lips - his brief companion, his diversion, was leaving.

...and he didn't want him to.

Their conversation was pleasant, in a way. Void of heated emotions and rage, of blood and hatred and undying enmity, as it might have been with Chiyo. It was calm. Insightful. Almost-but-not-quite-friendly. Only slightly brittle. He didn't want it to be over.

"Are you leaving...?" Sasori inquired almost hesitantly, reaching for the bars to pull himself to his feet - then withdrawing his hand, remembering the tags slashed across the bars.

Gaara's attention turned back to Sasori, blinking at his tone rather than his question. The other had felt the need to try and stand up as he did, and seemed a bit dejected at his potential departure.

If he were to admit it, the conversation was making him feel... awkward. It was difficult to look Sasori in the face. Not that the puppeteer was particularly belligerent—actually quite the opposite. But he felt as if his presence was bothering the other, that he was a cold annoyance to be tolerated. After all, why would a prisoner want the person who captured him to linger?

Thus his surprise when the missing nin offered the question, uncertainly.

"I felt I should, yes." he answered as he turned back to face the bars.

"...Mn."

The puppeteer turned his eyes to the ground, pressing his palms against the solid stone floor with a wooden clack and pushing himself to his feet. A joint crooned softly as he stood.

"Yes...naturally. Village duties and all of that, I'm sure."

Deep amber met seafoam green, and after a moment's thought, Sasori realized the Kazakage was just barely taller than him. He had to tilt his chin slightly upwards to look him in the face.

Sasori paused, examining the shape of the Kazekage. He saw the steady, unwavering torchlight set fire to the boy's red hair. He saw the pale teal eyes and the dark rings around them, the deep discomfort that flickered behind them, the burrowing guilt and confused enmity. The tagged bars cut thick, dark lines through his image. In the empty spaces there was a young, careworn leader with unquestionable but ragged loyalties, his shoulders heavy with responsibility that belied his years.

The Akasuna cast a vague, sideways glance down what he could see of the hall. He listened to the soft murmur of distant voices, and echoing footsteps.

"...Well, best be getting back to that. Before they accuse you of treason."

He shot a thin, faintly humored glance at the Jinchuuriki as he turned his back upon the bars, his slow, deliberate steps leading him back to his preferred place in his dark, hard little cell.

"Again."

Sasori had made a joke. It was a dark, almost bitter joke, and somewhere in his head Gaara believed that if he were anyone but himself, he might have laughed. Or at the very least smiled.

Instead he stared back at Sasori with that distant sort of surprise.

The man's wooden body looked almost skeletal, a quality he had seen in nearly every humanoid puppet of Suna. Now it gave the other the sense of starvation. Funny quality for a being without possession of a stomach. Funny in that bitter way that never inspired laughter.

The Kazekage knew he was lingering, and that alone made him turn his head towards the uneasy, shuffling guards at the end of the hall, as if trying to justify his stillness. What was he waiting for? He was never good with words-why would he think he could come up with a reasonable departing phrase?

Turning, a last, softer glance slid over his shoulder before he walked away from the cell.

Sasori settled against the far wall, pressing his back to the rough stone and eyeing the rigid shapes of the bars. His expression was passive, blank and unexpressive, and as his liquid brown eyes flickered over the manifold lines obstructing his vision he folded tighter upon himself, arms circling his legs, his fingers curling in the fabric of his loose, unnecessary gray leggings. If blood had run through his wooden flesh, his knuckles would have been white with the force of his grip.

He thought of the quietness of the village that surrounded him on all sides. Of the people who lived and breathed and ate and slept and functioned there normally, with perfect normality.

He thought of their somber leader.

One of his fingers unfurled, twitching upward and down, listening softly for the answer of some distant tug.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

The puppetless puppet puppeteer closed his eyes and settled into stillness.


	16. Escape

There were rumors and then there were facts. Bijuu locations were often rumors, passed by word-of-mouth from shinobi to shinobi, not to be believed until one of them went into the country to test their legitimacy in person. Appearances of rogue nin were usually rumors, almost _always_ rumors… but in truth, it depended on the source.

Because these were the facts:

Fact – Sasori had been absent for over three weeks after an reconnaissance mission into Sunagakure. Fact – he unleashed a chemical attack on the entire village. Fact – the attacked village was still operating normally.

Fact – Sasori no Akasuuna was still alive.

It went against what he logically had no choice but to believe, it went against what Pain said, but it was fact, confirmed _fact_. The information changed things. It even changed something in him, because for the first time he was doing the impossible.

He was standing up to his boss.

"He's alive. I can get him back, just give me the chance, un!"

Sasori was captured. His usefulness had reached its end. He might as well be dead.

"He's been in the organization for decades, hasn't he? Wouldn't it be less troublesome to have him and not have to find someone new?"

Grudgingly, he was given the go ahead. He left the chamber trembling with a combination of adrenaline and relief.

**xXxXx**

Sunagakure was quiet at this hour. The sun had long since set, and the air was chilled. From his vantage point high above the city, where the cutting desert wind was untempered by obstacles, the cold was even more noticeable. His breath might have been visible if it hadn't been snatched away so quickly. The lights down below flickered gold, more and more fading as time went on. He hadn't been spotted, and even without cloud cover, he didn't expect to be. Shinobi hadn't learned to look up.

Deidara turned his mount around, soaring over invisible paths while he studied the positions and movements of the guards, carefully plotting the points he'd need to set up that one magnificent instant where they would all be distracted, each turned away from the main prize.

_Sasori._

The globules of clay in his mouths were turned over and over, kneaded to bursting with chakra. Once one set finished, he removed the tiny bird statuettes to add more.

Six focal locations, one prison. Seven bombs. Sunagakure would never knew what hit it.

All it took was a single smooth circle over the city, the tiny, deceptively delicate-looking birds flitting downwards before settling to roost on a ledge or a window sill. Then, Deidara himself swooped steeply out of the sky.

As he stepped off the bird and onto the prison's roof, six bombs within the city exploded.

Flame and smoke rose into the air, lighting up the night.

**xXxXx**

Deep inside his cage, Sasori looked up from his folded arms and turned deeply shadowed eyes to the rooftop. Did he imagine the soft patter of familiar footsteps? Was it all in his mind? The shape of a memory manifesting itself as a false sound in his ears? Or was it-

Then he heard the muted paffSHHH of a blast heard over distance and through thick walls. And another, not half a second behind it. Another layered atop that. And another. The rip of fire through air, too faraway and simultaneous to determine how big each was, how many there were. Four, five. Maybe more, it was hard to say. But there was no question that destruction of explosive proportions was running rampant through the broken quiet of the sand-burdened streets, and Sasori knew only one person who could coordinate such a subtle and deadly display, such a well-structured advance of mayhem and fire.

A smile uncoiled along his lips. He could no longer detect the sound of delicate steps somewhere above, overlaid as they were with rising screams and shouts and the thunder of collapsing buildings, but he didn't need to. He knew who stood triumphant above him.

The ghost of metal coils shifted in the empty cavity of his stomach.

Deidara.

I'm ready.

**xXxXx**

The guards of the prison heard the explosion, and they jolted at their posts, before running out into the streets. They missed the cloaked shinobi who entered the building behind them.

The prison was practically empty and looked like a real shithole in spite of that. What, did Suna not have any good terrorists to put away or anything? For a country that was falling on hard economic times, where the Kazekage could murder his wife in public and get away with it, Deidara was surprised by the lack of caught criminals. Even the bars, usually tagged with powerful sigils of repelling and pain, were bare. He was able to run his hands over them, announcing his presence with metallic thuds.

"Sasori _daaa-_naaa!" he called out, and there he was, in a cell that was so heavily tagged he actually grimaced as he stood in front of the bars. His single visible eye ran over the multitude of tags. Several different types, and he only knew how to deactivate one of them.

But his frustration at the sight was mild and short-lived, overridden instantly with relief not unlike that which had flooded him with Pain had granted him his request with a curt, dismissive nod.

It was true, Sasori was alive.

...imprisoned in his home village, sure, but there were worse things that could have happened.

Deidara's body hadn't even stopped moving before his mouth started.

"Now, please, don't start with the whole _'you kept me waiting'_ thing you always do," Deidara wriggled his fingers, as though in childish imitation of puppetry. "Because yes, I did, I know, and in my defense, Pain said you were _dead_, un! We all thought you were dead, and as soon as I heard the news that you weren't, I got here fast as I could."

A wry smirk performed a slow waltz across the thin line of Sasori's mouth.

"You know me so well," he all but purred, arching a brow and narrowing his eyes at the young man who stood just beyond the bars. Deidara was a beautiful sight for sore eyes. Long blond hair, ruffled from a recent flight, folding smoothly over one eye while the other-shapely, silver-gray, dark-lashed-glimmered playfully over everything, hinting at the Iwagakure nin's constant curiosity as to what this and that would look like when blown to little burning bits. Deidara's black and red Akatsuki robes were fully intact and mostly clean, save for a light peppering of sand.

Sasori remembered the condition of his own robes. Last he'd seen them, they'd been shredded by his metal-bladed wings, stained with a sticky, reeking combination of poison, antidote, and oil.

He felt suddenly worn and unclean.

"Get me out of this place, Deidara." The puppet master spat venomously, glaring up at the bars. "The back wall can be blasted open. For some reason, these idiot shinobi think a few feet of compressed sand is an unconquerable obstacle. _Well,_" he shot a dark, slippery smile at his companion. "I don't suppose they were counting on _you_, were they?"

"They don't even watch the skies, danna," Deidara smirked, rather happy at not being met with scolds or snarls-at least the venom wasn't directed at him. "Now, stand as close to the bars you can. I don't think we have much time until they start catching on, so we have to make a break for it, un."

He gathered clay into his hand to destroy the wall as he turned on his heel to run back down the hallway, towards the exit. Sasori pressed as close as he could to the bars without touching them, shouting a precaution at the retreating back of his cohort.

"Deidara! Keep an eye out for the bijuu host, Kazekage Gaara!" His voice was loud in the void of the prison, dust-softened though it was. Then the patter of footsteps faded away and Sasori was once again alone with the muffled screams of the village.

As he turned to eye the back wall with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation—for one could never _really_ rely trustingly upon explosive devices, even those handled with Deidara's effortless precision—he imagined he heard Gaara's name echoing in his voice over the rough, solid walls.

_Gaara._

He hoped the young Jinchuuriki was otherwise occupied with the sudden outburst of chaos in his village. An encounter with Deidara could prove disastrous. For Deidara. For Gaara. Their abilities were well matched, and for all that the blonde bomber was a nuisance, Sasori was rather fond of him, much to his chagrin. He wouldn't want anything bad to happen to them. To either of them, for that matter—

His brow furrowed.

No. No, of course he wanted misfortune to befall that bloody bijuu bucket. The little maggot had _ruined_ him. He'd ruined his favorite puppet and locked the puppeteer in a cage. He deserved death, he deserved torture and _then_ death, he deserved—

_He'll get all of that and more when Deidara catches him._

Bijuu removal. Ripping two souls from one body. He'd seen it done, seen the looks on the Jinchuuriki's faces as the spirits they'd been accompanied by throughout their lives were torn from them forcibly, painfully. He imagined Gaara's dark-rimmed eyes wide with internal agony, his mouth opened in a silent scream as his spine arched and his pale features contorted.

_He deserves it, after what he did to me. He _deserves _it._

Pale teal eyes made heavy by experience and responsibility that belied his years. Deep red hair just a shade lighter than his own, set aflame by the yellowed prison light. An air of quiet dignity and suppressed grief. A permanent distance between him and everyone he had ever known. He deserved it. He deserved it. He _had_ to deserve it.

Sasori settled beside the bars to wait.

**xXxXx**

Gaara had been frantic since the first explosion, shaken out of his quiet walk around the city at night. Flames and smoke lit the city with ghoulish, indistinct flickers, six different plumes rising over the skyline. Already the jounin of the village were active, darting back and forth in haphazard attempts to dig survivors out of wreckage and suppress the devouring flames.

"Kazekage-sama!" a young chuunin on patrol looked up at him from ground level, "What are your orders?"

"Alert whoever you can. Get everyone on guard—we're under attack!"

Under attack. The words were stinging, bitter on his tongue.

"Could it be Sasori?"

It temporarily puzzled Gaara that the chuunin would think that. Sasori was locked up, without any of his weapons. Why would he have waited this long, if he had planted explosives at some point?

And yet...

"Kazekage-sama! Where are you going?"

"I'm going to search for the culprit."

Sand rose from the ground. The chuunin paused, wavered, then nodded and ran off to gather his superiors, and Gaara leaped onto his rising platform. As he drew higher and higher, above the city, he could see more comprehensively the full extent of the damage. Buildings he recognized—residents he knew—destroyed. His eyes swept over the village, searching for something out of place.

_Sasori._

He turned his gaze on the prison. It was quiet. If he hadn't known any better, he would've thought it to be empty. The only thing unusual about it was that the guards were heading away from it, abandoning their posts to come to aid the rest of the village. Unprofessional, but understandable. Gaara was ready to turn his attention back to the rest of the city when once more, an explosion ripped through the night.

It was smaller than the blasts before it, without the concussive echo now that the city was full of noise.

But there-where he had been looking just seconds before-rose a small cloud of smoke and dust.

No. _Impossible_.

He felt a chill creep into his chest, fear and guilt mixing in dizzying extremes.

Even captured, even after begging to die, was Sasori attacking the village once more? Then maybe he should have fulfilled the other man's request, so long ago on that operating table.

And yet, still, distantly, he protested to that thought.

He didn't want to kill Sasori.

Even as he dived down towards the seventh bombing site, he wondered how he would.

xxx

The wall was thoroughly collapsed between them, and Deidara waved through the grit and falling debris. "Ride's here, Danna, let's get a move on, un." The blank faced bird approached at his side, its wings spread low to the ground in what might have been an invitation.

Sasori lowered his arm from his face, sand and fine rubble dusting his body and layering his pants, turning his vivid red hair a soft, washed-out brown. His eyes, however, were bright, even in the moonlight. The moments of worry and baseless, confusing doubt had fled his mind with the force of the blast, leaving behind one thought, one word:

_Freedom._

Triumph quickened his steps. Elation launched him off the ground, a bare footprint pressed into the explosion-flattened sand the only thing he left behind. Deidara's clay was soft beneath him, giving under his meager weight in a manner both familiar and surprising.

Sasori smirked up at his companion, grabbing ahold of the bird with one hand and brushing back his hair with the other. He couldn't stop pull of his lips that tugged his wry half-smile into an all out grin, and didn't bother to try. It wasn't often that Deidara did something truly wonderful, something to earn the Akasuuna's undisguised pleasure and respect. This time, he had. He deserved to see it, see the relief and the joy and the pure, unadulterated excitement that thrummed through his puppet body at the touch of moving air, at the sound of explosions and the distant orange glare of fire.

"Let's go then."

Seeing Sasori's 'true form' was admittedly a bit of a shock, but Deidara was in no position to be worrying about that right now. Whatever the Suna nin had done to himself would have to be set aside. For now, he had other things he had to attend to.

One, getting Sasori out.

Two, the Jinchuuriki.

As soon as the puppeteer was secure, the bird was carrying them both high into the air, leaving the jail a tiny anonymous blotch below even as the guards finally looked up and saw them.

They weren't the only ones.

Deidara's camera whirred softly as he focused on something in the sky. A platform of sand, with a figure atop it.

"Hey danna. The kid with the red hair and sand and mean face is the Shukaku, right?"

Sasori's head snapped up, then swiveled sharply, tracing the line of his partner's gaze. He didn't have to search the sky for long to spot the now-familiar shape of the young Kazekage, a black smudge against a blacker sky. Even without the assistance of the little mechanized lens Deidara enhanced his vision with, the puppeteer could almost see it, memory and imagination filling in the blanks where sight was lacking - arms crossed over his chest, spikes of red hair plucked by the winds that cut the air high above the city. Black-rimmed, seafoam-green eyes narrowed and focused unerringly on the rising, indistinct shape of an impossible bird.

"Yes." It came out strained and thin, more breath than voice. "Yes, that's him."

The puppeteer swung around, locking on to the bomber. His jaw was tight, brows drawn together over wide eyes, his fingers curling hard into the softness of the clay and leaving behind gouged indentations. There was a time when he would sooner die than show weakness or fear. That time was not now. The many weeks he'd spent in the village of his birth had changed him in ways he didn't want to think about, and couldn't face. Not tonight.

Possibly not ever.

"Run. Just go, get us out of here."

Deidara glanced back at him, the camera in his eye blurring before it zoomed far out. The words were another surprise to him, like a one-two punch in the gut, but he only shook his head. "Sorry, danna, but Boss told me to come back with the host or not at all. I had to grovel just to get his permission to pick you up in the meantime."

Something in Sasori's chest (might have been his heart, might have been something else, something less substantial and more human) tightened and twisted, curling in upon itself with a shudder at Deidara's words.

He was a side job, a pickup. A little diversion the bomber had barely gotten permission to engage in while running the important errand. Pain didn't want him back, didn't need a colossal failure of a missing-nin polluting his ranks, besmirching the honor of the Akatsuki. He just wanted the Jincuuriki.

For all their leader cared, the puppet master could rot in his cell.

If Deidara was aware of the puppeteer's quiet turmoil, he made no sign of it. In the mouths of his hands he churned his clay, a rough-edged plan forming in his mind.

"You get out of the village. I'll take care of him, un." He thrust his hand out, and there was a poof of smoke as another, smaller bird appeared beside them. "It'll carry you over the wall."

Sasori's lips were numb and his eyes were vacant as he slid off of the great clay bird to land atop it's smaller counterpart, straddling its long, soft neck and hooking his legs in above its wings. Before it could move away, though, he lurched to the side - canting dangerously, but holding tight - to grab at the edge of Deidara's cloak. He hated to ask anything more of his partner (_former partner_) but he had to. He _had_ to. Just this one last thing.

"Do you have anything I can use to...to fight? Defend myself? I...I can't..." He couldn't look up, couldn't meet the bomber's gaze. "They took everything."

Deidara stared back at him, his expression faltering into something somber. He searched a mental list of his inventory-the two of them had little overlap between their weapons. What did Deidara have? Clay, utility kunai, scrolls... Wait. The scrolls.

He fished around through his gear and pulled out a small roll of paper. "You threw this at me before you left to go scope Suunagakure..." he glanced at the tag on it, "I think it's spare puppet parts or something," He had been holding onto it, in the meantime, even though he had almost forgotten.

"Sasori, get out of the city and keep your head down. Their attention's going to be on me," he smirked a little, "But if you don't spot me in an hour... well, you know the way out of wind country, don't you?"

The bird he was on flapped its wings almost irritably, rocking Deidara with the motion, "I'll try not to keep you waiting!"

Sasori caught the scroll, snatching it out of the air while the corner of his mouth twitched upwards almost involuntarily at the familiarity of the parting phrase; his own, irritable line turned around into a something almost like a promise. Almost like home.

But then his face froze. His lips thinned, pulling tight and hard, and his expression was somewhere between dead and brittle when he knocked his heel back stiffly against the shoulder of his mount in a silent command. (Turn. Go. Fly. _Flee_.) When it banked steeply to the side, wings sweeping down, propelling them upwards and away, he clutched at it with one hand and busied the other jamming the scroll into his waistband, his eyes focused on the smooth, lifelessly cool clay beneath him and nothing else.

Because there was no home for him now. Not here, in this city. Not even outside it, in the latticework of caverns where he'd constructed his workshop.

It was foolish to think that he even need know the word.

**xXxXx**

Gaara had descended upon Deidara in just enough time to see the second bird dart away. His gaze followed it, until it was forced to return to the attacker of his city.

"You're the Shukaku's, right?"

The man had a nasally drone of a voice. It was sort of grating to him.

"I am the Kazekage of this village, and I will not allow an Akatsuki like you to escape."

Lip quirking up in amusement, Deidara sneered. So the kid recognized the robe. He was catching on. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a collection of his clay. They burst, and darted through the resulting smoke, unliving birds flying straight towards the Kazekage.

An explosion ripped through the night.

**xXxXx**

**Gaara, Deidara: LightningOugi**

**Sasori: NMT**


End file.
